


The Colorado 2nd

by imparfait



Category: South Park
Genre: Congress, Depression, Kidfic, M/M, Politics, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imparfait/pseuds/imparfait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Kyle's second term in the House.  Stan adjusts.  Poorly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Two Tuesdays

_Then:_

On a quiet Tuesday in September, Kyle came home with a dazed look on his face. He even came home _early_. Stan was worried. He thought maybe Kyle had gotten fired, but Kyle was oddly calm as he shed his suit jacket and grabbed a beer. They settled in the living room, all three of them. Jake was playing with blocks on the floor, telling his teddy bear a story in stilted, half-formed sentences. Stan was quietly fretting. He just wanted Kyle to say something so he could stop freaking out about what was probably nothing.

Earlier, Stan had thought about starting a fire in the fireplace and maybe opening a bottle of wine when Kyle got home. Now he was glad he hadn't. He knew something was wrong. The anxiety was basically giving him hives. The room was already too hot and he felt like he needed a clear head. 

Whatever was happening, Kyle wasn't sure how to deal with it. He wasn't angry and yelling about whatever great injustice he'd been served. He wasn't happily popping the cork on a bottle of champagne. He wasn't even his normal self, who hitched Jake up into his lap and listened to Stan talk about his day at the office. Instead, Kyle was watching them both carefully, looking between Stan and Jake like he was trying to see something that Stan couldn't understand. 

It took ten minutes of silence for Stan to final crack. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly, eyes slipping from Kyle to Jake then back to Kyle. 

"Jared Polis is running for Senate," Kyle said.

Stan wondered if maybe Kyle was planning on working for the campaign or something equally outrageous. Stan was well aware of how terrible campaign staff was paid. Taking a hundred thousand dollar a year hit to their income wasn't something he would be jumping for joy about. Kyle volunteered his time for the party already: he was a precinct captain, he'd volunteered for Clinton both times, and was the most hardass organizer the Colorado Second had ever seen. Stan loved that shit: the grassroots, getting people motivated part of politics, but Kyle lived for it. Stan just wasn't sure they could live _on_ it. 

"That's... great?" 

"Yeah." Kyle sounded sort of lost, like he was still in his office, like there was a contract he was still in the middle of writing, even though he'd come home. It was Stan's least favorite version of Kyle. "It's great for him. He'll be great."

"I don't understand what's going on, Kyle." Stan tried to keep his voice even, but he knew he sounded like he was freaking out.

"Carl Barrington called me yesterday. We had drinks today. Like an hour ago."

"Okay?"

Kyle put his beer down on the table and took in a deep, long breath. "It wasn't about Polis. Well, it kind of was."

"What are you talking about?"

"He was. I mean, we were bullshitting, you know? About work, about the last election, about how great Polis is going to be for the Senate." He smiled distractedly at Jake when Jake plopped a block into his lap. "He started going on and on about opposition in the House race, how the Second needs to stay Democratic." He put the block back into Jake's tiny, wobbling hands. "I started throwing names out there, you know, for the House seat. Because Frank'd be awesome and Linda is amazing on the city council, she'd be even better in the House. A firecracker."

"Yeah, sure." Stan watched Jake toddle back over to his blocks, which he promptly abandoned for his juice. "You gonna be Linda's campaign manager, or something? Carl retiring from masterminding the Colorado Democratic party?"

Kyle shook his head. "There's. They already picked someone out, Carl. And. The D-triple-C. For the seat."

" _Kyle._ " Stan's patience was at its ends. He didn't understand the lost look on Kyle's face, the way he was completely ignoring Jake's systematic destruction of the living room with a combination of apple juice, blocks, and cheerios.

"They want me to run," Kyle said softly. He picked at the label on his bottle and looked up at Stan. He was caught between total panic and tears; Stan could tell from the way his Adam's apple was bobbing and his eyes were crinkling at the corners. "They want me to run for Congress."

***

_Now:_

It was a Tuesday in January. Late. Stan'd been on the couch with a book for a while, curled up under a quilt. He wasn't really reading, just like he wasn't really watching TV earlier. He kind of hated January. He hated it on principle, but in DC it was unbearable. It was cold, but not cold enough. It snowed, but not pretty snow, just that ugly, grey, sloppy slush that cities got. Not that Boulder wasn't a city or that the snow wasn't ugly two days in. He missed the mountains every time he looked out the window.

He wasn't surprised when his phone, somewhere down by his knees, dinged. He wasn't surprised when he checked it and it was Kyle, apologizing _again_ for being late. It was January in DC--he was certain that no one got home on time. Although 9:30 was late, and bad, even for Kyle. Even in January. He tossed his book back onto the coffee table and turned the TV back on. It was on low and still on C-Span. Some appropriations subcommittee was bitching about funding allocations. Stan hated Republicans for at least three discrete reasons so he instantly disliked the chairman of every committee. And Jesus fuck, this one was from Alabama, so the accent was grating as all hell. Stan also hated Alabama, even though he'd only been there once. Once was enough.

It was the same boring pontifying that he'd shut off earlier. Congress had been in session for eleven days and already there was the usual assigning of blame and deflection of responsibility that made Stan generally feel terrible about the state of the government. He thought maybe most congresspeople cared. They were easy to vilify though. He knew; he'd probably met half the House.

He got up and puttered into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and eyed the plate he'd made for Kyle, hours ago, under plastic wrap on the top shelf. At five he'd thought maybe Kyle would get home by seven-thirty. He tried to be home before eight every night. In a few weeks, he'd be reliably in the door by seven-thirty three nights out of five. In the mean time, Stan was making his best attempt to read through the DC public library and to stay off the comments section on CNN articles. Sometimes he called his Mom. 

Stan checked the clock on the microwave as he settled down at the tiny kitchen table. It was 10:15 and he was still alone. He thought about going back to his book but he heard the door unlocking and finally, _thankfully_ , Kyle was home. Stan hopped up and jogged into the hallway, beer dangling precariously in his fingertips, and let a grin take over his face at Kyle's harried, exhausted, completely relieved look.

"Hey."

Kyle tossed his briefcase down and toed off his shoes. "Hey," he echoed. "Jake asleep?"

"Since eight," Stan answered. 

Kyle came over and kissed him. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

"The meeting ran late."

Stan shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. It wasn't, not really. Now that Kyle was home his head didn't feel like it was full of wool or like the world stopped turning. When Jake was awake or Kyle was home, Stan felt engaged. Stuck with a sleeping six year old and nothing but crappy television and books, the world was insanely small and unpleasant. 

Kyle tossed his suit jacket on a chair by the door as he crossed the narrow hall into the kitchen. Stan leaned against the doorframe, watching Kyle root through the fridge and come out with his own beer. 

"Anyway," Kyle said as he popped the cap off and practically collapsed into a kitchen chair, "what'd you two do today?"

"I don't know." Stan sighed and sat across from Kyle. Kyle's tie was half unknotted, crooked on his chest, and he desperately needed to shave. Stan squashed the urge to brush his knuckles across Kyle's stubble because Kyle hated it. He said it felt weird. Stan didn't manage to stop himself from undoing Kyle's tie, which earned him another tired smile. "We played Uno. Watched The Lion King again. He had homework today."

Kyle was quietly staring at the label on his beer, unblinking. Stan knew that Kyle hated this. He could tell from the look on his face whenever they talked about Jake, like he was soaking in every tiny detail of their day. He _hated_ coming home after Jake went to bed and, most days, leaving before Jake woke up.

"Dude," Stan said softly. He put his hand out, palm up, and Kyle tangled their fingers together. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He looked up at Stan again finally. "I'm just exhausted, and I miss you, and I miss Jake."

"January sucks."

Kyle laughed quietly. There wasn't much mirth in it, but Stan would take any laugh over Kyle staring morosely at his beer. "You think everything sucks, Stan."

"Not you. Not Jake." He took a swig of beer. "I think DC sucks, though."

Kyle cringed. "I'm _sorry_."

"Don't apologize."

"Well, I don't know what else you want me to say. You wanna go stay in Boulder? You guys can go home, if you want." Kyle's nose wrinkled, like the just saying the words left an awful taste in his mouth. 

They'd talked about it before. Kyle offered it in the beginning, three years ago, in that other lifetime. Stan could stay. He could drop Jake off at daycare and putter around his office at SolTech. They could live off Skype calls, facetime, and rack up enough frequent flier miles to kill off a species of fish. They were already working their way up in the ranks of American Airlines' most valued customers as it was, with district work weeks and going home for long weekends. If Kyle was running back and forth every weekend he'd spend half his life on a plane. Stan didn't understand how the rest of Congress pulled it off without going insane.

Stan knew Boulder was always an option. His presence in Washington wasn't required, only Kyle's. Kyle was an oddball Congressman for having his family here in the first place. Stan got strange looks for those first two years whenever Kyle had someone over for dinner and drinks. They both hated the idea of spending half the year apart, though, so that's what they'd decided: they did this together or not at all. The thought of Kyle here alone being slowly eaten from the inside by the fucking House of Representatives horrified Stan. So he shook his head.

"No way. We're a team."

That earned him a real smile across Kyle's tired face. "You wanna stay up with me for a while? I have a couple memos to read."

Stan nodded. 'A couple' could be two or seven; Stan didn't care. This was his favorite part of days in DC: they curled up on the couch with a blanket and Kyle read while Stan vaguely paid attention to whatever was next in his Netflix queue. 

Sometimes Kyle read aloud the bits and pieces that Allie, his policy advisor, had worded particularly awfully. In between dry sentences on farming subsidies there'd sometimes be a limerick pencilled into the margins about that soul sucking blowhard from Montana and how deeply he loved his cows. Stan found it hilarious but he worried, sometimes, about whether or not anyone would someday find one of those marked-up copies and cause a scandal with them. 

Kyle made it to nearly midnight before he drifted off against Stan's shoulder. He'd been up since five and while Stan firmly believed that eighty percent of Congress did nothing at all, he knew that Kyle wasn't one of _those_ Congresspeople. He'd probably spent every minute he wasn't in meetings calling constituents back because Kyle was exactly _that_ kind of person.

And that was why Stan couldn't ever leave him here alone, because Stan thought Washington had a way of chewing people up and spitting them back out without a heart. He couldn't bear the thought.


	2. Chapter 2

On weekday mornings Stan woke up twice. First at five, when Kyle mumbled _you motherfucker_ at the alarm clock and slammed his hand down hard on it. Stan drifted in and out while Kyle got ready. There was something comforting about being slowly pulled out of sleep by the sounds of Kyle's routine: the shower hissing softly through a closed door, then the buzz of his razor. Stan managed to get one eye open and slur out a sleepy _g'mornin'_ when Kyle emerged, towel slung low across his hips. 

"Go back to sleep," Kyle whispered. He always crossed the room and kissed Stan on the temple, murmuring _love you_ against his skin. Sometimes Kyle sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed Stan's back until he fell back asleep. Sometimes Stan watched Kyle get dressed in the strip of light that flooded out of the closet; on those days he didn't drift off again until he heard dull thump of the front door slamming shut behind Kyle.

When he woke up again at seven to the shrill blare of the alarm clock, he groped for the snooze button and then fell forward, face down into Kyle's pillow. There wasn't any comfort in his own routine, just ubiquitous anxiety that built up in his chest until it was hard to breathe.

On Thursday morning three weeks after Congress had been gaveled into session, Stan lay in bed listening to the angry, uneven rhythm of rain pelting the windowpane and deeply hating whoever was responsible for alarm clocks. At least he didn't oversleep again, Stan thought as he forced himself out of bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. 

He groped blindly for the light switch on the bathroom wall and winced when the fluorescent light bit into his eyes. Last Thursday, Stan was hollering at Jake to wake up with his toothbrush still in his mouth and Jake ate his bagel on the walk to school. They'd already been fifteen minutes late before they even got out of the house. Mornings were better when they both had time to veg at the kitchen table, Stan staring into his coffee mug and Jake poking disinterestedly at his cereal. 

Stan convinced himself not to go back to bed while he pissed. As he brushed his teeth, he reminded himself that yes, Jake did have to go to school even though it was raining. He splashed water on his face and told himself he didn't mind getting soaked through to the bone on the walk. He stared in the mirror for a while and considered shaving, but he'd do it later. Now he had to wake the little monster and convince _him_ of all the same things.

A vague, uncertain kind of panic shot through him when he pushed open Jake's bedroom door. Jake _wasn't there_. The bed was made, the curtains were pushed open, and Jake's little blue and green backpack was nowhere to be found. 

"Jake?" Stan called out. He crossed the hall into the tiny second bathroom but that was empty, too. "Jacob, where the hell are you?!"

"Downstairs!" Kyle's voice hollered up the stairs. "We're in the kitchen!"

Stan thundered down the stairs, nearly falling over himself as he skidded into the kitchen. Panic drained out of him at the sight of two curly heads of hair bent together at the table. His imagination hadn't manage to form a nightmare situation but just not knowing where Jake was made him incredibly nervous.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, taking in the scene in front of him. Jake was happily chomping on toast. Dressed. Hair brushed. His Power Rangers homework folder was open on the table; he'd been showing Kyle his homework sheet.

Kyle set his coffee cup down on the table next to his cereal with a thunk, arched an eyebrow, and stared at Stan with an expression that was equal parts confused and unimpressed. "Eating breakfast."

Stan blinked. 

"I heard you leave," he said slowly. "You slammed the door."

"I came back. Obviously, since I'm sitting here." Kyle motioned to the chair across from him, which Stan kind of fell into, sagging with relief.

Kyle absently pushed the plate of toast in Stan's direction while he listened to Jake recount the injustices served on him by Theo Palmer, who apparently hogged all the good art supplies even though they were supposed to share. Stan heard the whole story the night before at least twice, so he half-listened while he ate his toast. Theo got Jake fired up over almost anything. He was unfair, a bully, and once he'd stolen the cookies Jake brought with him for snack time, which had cemented him as a mortal enemy. Stan kind of liked it when Jake bubbled over with righteous indignation. Despite the dark hair and his tiny button nose, when Jake got going all Stan could see was a mini-Kyle. It worried him as much as it made him proud.

"I just want the glitter, Daddy, but he _hides_ it." Jake miserably shoved the last bite of his toast in his mouth. He looked thoughtful as he swallowed. "I'm gonna tell Miss Young on him if he does it again."

"That's my boy. Let the authorities deal with the problem." Kyle smiled and chucked Jake's chin. "You done?"

Jake held his empty hands up. His fingers were a little buttery but he'd come away from breakfast less of a mess than normal. _Bless_ Kyle, Stan thought. He had magical Jake-taming powers that Stan just didn't possess.

"Go wash up," Kyle ordered. Jake hopped out of his chair and dashed out of the room. "Brush your teeth, too!" Kyle shouted after him as he thumped up the stairs.

Stan watched him absently as Kyle cleared the dishes off the table. He tossed the rest toast and considered a bowl of sliced up fruit before setting it down in front of Stan. "Want some coffee?" he asked.

"What?"

"Coffee, Stanley." Kyle poured him a cup without waiting for an answer. "You looked like you were going to have a heart attack." 

"I didn't know where Jake was."

Kyle held the cup out to him. Stan took his mug gratefully, dumped some cream in it, and grimaced when his first sip scalded his mouth. 

"Doesn't he ever get up before you?" Kyle asked as he filled his own mug.

"God, no. I go into battle every morning against General Grumpyass up there."

Kyle settled back into his seat, chuckling. "Poor Stan. Locked in eternal combat with forty-seven pounds of fury."

They were quiet for a while. Kyle's phone _pirriped_ with messages every few minutes but he left it clipped onto his belt, ignoring it in favor of watching Stan sip at his coffee and fish grapes out of the fruit bowl. Jake being awake and Kyle being home had shaken the last strands of sleepiness out of Stan's brain but he needed caffeine to feel human enough to hold a conversation.

"Seriously, though. You went all the way to the office and came _back_?" 

"Nah," Kyle said. "I went all the way down the street to Andrew's apartment and dropped a bunch of crap in his lap for him to take to the office. I cancelled my breakfast meeting."

"Why?"

"So I could have breakfast with you," he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It wasn't.

January was full of endless early meetings and late nights. Stan fully expected Kyle to be absent until early February. They'd go back to Boulder for a long weekend. Afterward, miraculously, Kyle would start setting the alarm clock for six thirty instead of five and breakfast would be a family thing again, a reason to drag his ass out of bed. 

"I'm glad you're here," Stan said. "Who'd you blow off for us?"

"Richardson and Silver-fucking-stein, of course, because God hates me." 

"Since when are Richardson and Silverstein breakfast buddies?" That was a comedy waiting to happen. Richardson was a blue dog from Texas. Silverstein was frequently accused of being a socialist by Fox News. Stan couldn't even picture them both at the same table, let alone agreeing on anything important enough to merit having meetings. "Were you moderating a debate? What could they possibly agree on?"

"That the Medicare reform proposal is a terrible idea, apparently, but I'm sure Silverstein was going to go off on a tangent about one of his pet projects. If I have to hear another word about low-income housing subsidies from a legacy admission to Harvard who owns _six fucking houses_ -"

"Kyle." Stan glanced pointedly at the door. Jake had a tendency to repeat their opinions in the wrong company, which had already gotten them into trouble a few times. Stan was trying to stamp it out but the last thing Jake needed was more ammunition. "He was good to you on that preschool thing last year."

"Yes, and now we're apparently best friends. And I'm supposed to get behind a bloated HUD bill because he thought giving single parents on unemployment assistance with childcare was _nice_." Kyle splayed his hands out on the table in front of him and stared down at his fingers with a frown on his face. "Ben Silverstein knows about as much about struggle as I know about nuclear physics. It wasn't nice. It was _necessary_."

Stan actually liked Ben all right. They'd had him over for dinner a few times while Kyle was working day and night on his preschool initiative. He thought Stan's work in renewable energy was interesting. Actually interesting, not just that condescending interest a lot of people showed when Stan got talking about how solar powered water filtration could save the developing world. He asked questions, he argued, he did his own research and came back for more. 

"He means well."

"He's obnoxious. But I'm sure he'll stop by and offer to take me out to lunch this afternoon so I can hear all about the merits of rent assistance. Which I agree with, by the way, and he damn well knows it. I just have a problem with the thirty two amendments attached to it."

"That's the price of doing business."

Kyle sighed. "Remember when we used to be optimistic about shit like this?"

"What, fifteen years ago?" Stan reached across the table and squeezed Kyle's hand. "I'm optimistic about the guy I voted for. He does a pretty good job."

"Oh, God, don't." Kyle covered his face with his free hand. "You have too much faith in me."

"No I don't. I know you want to do what's right."

They were quiet again for a while, until Kyle checked the clock on the wall above the doorway and hefted himself to his feet, swallowing down the last dregs of his coffee. 

"I gotta go."

"Say goodbye to Jake," Stan reminded him.

Kyle shot him a hurt look as he slid his suit jacket on. "No, Stan, I'm just going to _leave_ without telling my guys I love them." He poked his head out of the doorway. "Jacob! Get down here, I'm going!"

Jake descended in a series of thumps. He threw himself full force at Kyle, nearly taking him out at the knees. "We gonna have breakfast tomorrow, Daddy?"

Kyle's expression kind of broke Stan's heart. "Sorry, pumpkin. But how does Saturday sound?"

Jake looked up at Kyle, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "I guess," he agreed. "Only if there's waffles."

"Mountains of 'em," Kyle promised. "Be good for Daddy, okay? And have a good day at school. I love you."

"I will," Jake promised. "You be good, too." He stretched his arms up and pursed his lips, demanding his goodbye hug and kiss. Kyle scooped him up and kissed him all over his face until Jake squirmed his way out of Kyle's arms. Stan dreaded the day when Jake thought he was too cool to demand hugs and kisses from his dads. It was coming up faster than he wanted it to, Stan thought as Jake tore off into the living room.

"C'mere," he said. He stood up from his chair and Kyle slid against him, sighing into the crook of Stan's neck.

"You have a good day, too," Kyle murmured.

"I will." Stan squeezed him once, tight, then pulled away just enough to kiss him. "I love you."

"Love you, too," Kyle said. "I'll see you tonight."

"Late?"

"Maybe." Kyle leaned up and kissed Stan again. "I'll text you."

Then Kyle was gone. Stan was alone in the kitchen. The world felt incredibly small.

***

After he dropped Jake off in the mornings, Stan was never quite sure what to do with himself. On Tuesdays, he took the Metro to Whole Foods, then spent the entire trip back reminding himself that he was the one who decided they didn't need a car in Washington and hating himself for it. Every other Wednesday he volunteered at the humane society, walking the dogs. The rest of the week was uncomfortably empty. Having nothing to do was still a strange new world.

He went for a jog around the Mall most mornings, when the weather was nice. The sky was spitting sleet today though, so as much as Stan had been looking forward to running until his lungs burned, he curled up on the couch with cup of tea instead.

Taking care of Jake was his _thing_. He loved it. Those first two years had been really great. They spent days in the Smithsonian, going to monuments, discovering these little hole in the wall restaurants, whatever they felt like doing. He taught Jake how to read. They curled up together on the couch with ice cream and watched Kyle on C-Span. They went to the library together some afternoons. 

Then Jake started kindergarten and Stan's afternoons were blessedly quiet. Being solely responsible for a tiny human fourteen hours a day hadn't left Stan a lot of time for himself. Sometimes he just wanted to shoot zombies or watch porn without having to worry about who was going to walk in on him.

When Jake started first grade in September, Kyle was in the middle of a campaign and they were all incredibly busy. Jake hadn't even been _in_ school for the entire month of October, because they'd been in Boulder for weeks at a time. Now Jake was back with his little friends, waging war against bullies and bringing home gold stars on his worksheets. 

And Stan was sitting in the living room alone, nursing his rapidly cooling tea, and wondering what he was supposed to _do_ without Jake.

So he set his mug down next to his novel and called his mom, because he kind of needed to hear her voice. He thought maybe he was regressing back to middle school, when he needed her pep talks to get his ass out the door. Sharon fed him pancakes and bacon, told him he was loved and important, and sent him off to school. 

The line only rang twice before she picked up. "Stan?"

"Hey, Mom." He hoped he didn't sound as awful as he felt.

"Is everyone okay? It's early."

"Everyone's fine." Maybe that was a lie. "I dropped Jake off an hour ago. It's crappy out. Kyle's at work."

"What do you need, sweetie?"

 _You_ , he wanted to say. "How did you deal with it, after I started school?"

"What do you mean?"

He let out a huff. "I just. I'm lonely."

Sharon laughed softly. "Of course you are, Stan. Watching you and Shelly grow up was bittersweet. Every day, you guys needed me less and less."

"It sucks."

"You could always have another one."

Just the thought of dealing with an infant _and_ Jake with Kyle working seventy hour weeks pulled a groan out of Stan. "No thank you. Do you know how grateful I am that I never have to see another diaper?"

"Well, you can't fault me for trying," Sharon said. "I don't know what to tell you, Stan. He's going to grow up. They don't stay little long enough."

He liked that Jake was growing up, liked discovering the kind of person Jake was going to be when he was grown. That wasn't the problem. The right words was hard to find, especially without laying all the blame at Kyle's feet, which wasn't right. They chose this together. Stan knew precisely what he was agreeing to every step of the way. He loved being there for his kid whenever Jake needed him. He loved that Kyle got to do something he was passionate about. He just wished he understood what he was supposed to do now.

"That's. Part of it."

"What's wrong, Stan?" He could hear the frown in her voice. 

"I miss home," he admitted. "I really, really miss home."

"You'll be here soon."

"Not. Not like to visit." Stan's eyes were leaking. He wiped at them, frustrated with himself for feeling this way. "I miss just. Everything. All of it. Just living in one place."

"Have you talked to Kyle at all?" She didn't wait for him to answer. She knew he hadn't without Stan even opening his mouth. "I know you didn't want to be apart, but if you need to come home, Stanley, you two can figure it out."

"No way." 

"Stan-"

"No, Mom. It's not the same without Kyle. And I couldn't do that to Jake. He needs us both." Stan needed them both, too, more than he needed air sometimes.

"Talk to Kyle," she insisted gently. "You guys can figure something out."

Kyle didn't have time for Stan's midlife crisis, or empty nest syndrome, or whatever the hell was going on in Stan's head. Half a million people dumped shit into his lap. Stan didn't want to be another problem for him to solve. He dealt with enough.

"Yeah," he lied. "I'll talk to him."

***

A week later Stan was still lying to his mom. She'd called him every day since last Thursday, asking him in that gentle way how he was feeling, if he'd talked to Kyle about it at all, if he wanted to come visit. _Fine_ , he told her and then he filled the silence with a cacophony of excuses, all thin lies on top of the mother of all lies: _of course I talked to Kyle_.

The guilt made him feel worse. 

His runs got longer in the mornings. The wet, miserable weather broke early in the week, so he spent his afternoons wandering with Jake after school. He couldn't shake his mood, though, no matter how many smiles Jake pulled out of him when he carefully counted out crumpled dollar bills for Pokemon cards or when he asked the girls at Starbucks for _one hot chocolate for me, please_.

He got home late Friday morning, after eleven. He showered, fixed a coffee, and settled down on the couch to check his messages. Sharon had called twice and left a voicemail, but Stan ignored in favor of the series of texts he got from Kyle while he was out.

_Have I ever told you that parliamentary procedure is a massive waste of time_  
_Are you asleep??_  
_Come on, I'm bored and tired of listening to Boehner's voice_  
_I'm pretty sure Jackson is looking at porn next to me but I'm afraid to check_  
_Come see me for lunch I've been traumatized and I need you_

He cracked a smile for the first time in what felt like hours. _On my way_ , he answered.

The walk to Cannon was short. They'd taken on more of a mortgage than they wanted to for the privilege of walking distance, but it was worth it. Stan didn't like the idea of Kyle walking through D.C in the middle of the night alone at all. He was comforted by the fact that it was only fifteen minutes, and the neighborhood was safe. He liked it for this reason, too: he could pop over for lunch without it being a production involving the metro or a taxi.

Kyle wasn't there when Stan showed up at noon, visitor badge bouncing against his chest. Chris, this shaky little intern that Stan felt bad for every time he visited, jumped out of his chair when Stan opened the door to the cramped front room of the suite. The poor kid still was afraid that every move he made was the wrong one.

"Mr. Marsh, hi. Hello." He sounded like a nervous wreck. "The Congressman isn't in right now."

Stan badly stifled a laugh, then felt terrible for it. "Chris, for the last time. Call me Stan, okay? Nobody calls me Mr. Marsh."

"Sorry. Stan. Yes." He ruffled his hair nervously. "Sorry. You kind of startled me."

Stan could see Shannon shaking her head, hiding a smirk behind a briefing book. "Stan," she said. "You're early."

"It's lunchtime. Where is he?"

"It's Friday," she countered. "Kyle's not back from the floor yet."

"You know I don't have his schedule memorized, right?" He dropped into one of the chairs along the wall near Shannon's desk. "He writes down when he's going to be on C-Span for me on the whiteboard so I can watch, and he texts me when he's on his way home."

She gave him a skeptical look. "I can't picture you watching C-Span. You're a Discovery Channel kind of guy."

"I make popcorn and everything. Jake and I make fun of him together."

"Okay, I believe _that_." She smiled. It looked wrong on her pinched face. Stan couldn't ever get used to it. She still scared him a little, though less and less every day. He was endlessly grateful for her; if it weren't for Shannon's no-nonsense attitude, Kyle would probably become the master of his own demise. He spread himself too thin. Shannon had this laser-focus on what was important and she wasn't afraid to yell at him to keep him on track.

"Do you know how long he's going to be?"

She checked the clock. "Unless someone decided to be an asshole on a Friday morning, he should be on his way back. The most controversial thing on the schedule was a resolution to declare February first 'National Healthcare Workers Day'."

"Our tax dollars hard at work."

"We can't fight a holy war every day, Stan. We'd die of exhaustion." She turned back to her briefing book. "You can wait in his office, you know. You aren't a guest."

Kyle's office had a terrible view, just the traffic on C Street and a parking lot, but it was nice, if not cramped, otherwise. Kyle's JD hung on the wall behind his desk. He had a glass-faced cabinet of trinkets his constituents had given him over the years. There was a massive map of the district hanging on the wall across from the window that all the campaign volunteers had happily defaced with good wishes on election night. After two races, it was so full it was bordering on illegible but Stan could still pick out Ike's message, written in green sharpie across the middle: _do good, bro._

Stan took the cozy chair behind Kyle's desk, legs sprawled, and stared at the picture that shared space on the desktop with Jake's school portrait, of him and Kyle squashed into the armchair in the Broflovski's living room. Kyle was laughing, arms thrown around Stan's neck, half in Stan's lap.

Stan reached out and touched the bottom edge of the frame. He didn't understand how to word the mess of emotions that made him want to cry or scream in frustration every day, but part of it was this: Kyle had been his forever, since Stan could remember. They laid childish claim to each other with spit-oaths and then later, real ones. Promises made in front of friends and family in the cramped hallway of the city clerks office.

He thought maybe something was changing, evolving their world into a scary kind of place where Kyle wasn't entirely his anymore, where nights squashed into an armchair together were the exception, not the rule. The thought burned, bit at the back of his throat, made his cheeks wet with uncomfortable tears. He didn't understand a universe where they weren't an intrinsic part of each other, and lately all Stan felt was left behind.

"Hey, do you--Stan?" 

Stan looked up from the desk at Kyle, standing in the doorway with one hand still on the knob, horrified look on his face. 

"What's-" He glanced back into the outer office, then closed the door behind him. "What's wrong?"

Stan wiped at his cheeks and fought down the embarrassment that lumped in his throat. Christ, what _was_ wrong with him? He'd been in a good mood earlier, after his run. When had he gotten so bad that he dissolved into tears at the drop of a hat? 

"Did something happen?" Kyle took a cautious step forward toward him, eyes still wide, the look on his face softening into concern. "Stan."

"I'm fine." Maybe if he kept telling himself that, it would be true. "I'm just having a bad day."

Kyle reached for the chair and spun it toward him. He squatted down in front of Stan and looked up at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth while he watched Stan for a while.

"You've been having an awful lot of those recently." He wiped the corners of Stan's eyes with his thumbs. Stan turned his head away and took in a shaky breath. 

"Hey," Kyle said. He pressed his fingers against the joint of Stan's jaw. "Look at me."

Stan let Kyle turn his head and fought against the urge to close his eyes. Kyle's stare was so intense, it almost hurt. He was quiet, just gently stroking his thumb across Stan's cheek. Stan didn't know what to say; he didn't know what the truth _was_ and Kyle wouldn't accept anything less. Everything hurt. Everything was work. Getting out of bed was this horrible thing that got more and more insurmountable every day.

"I just." Stan scrubbed his hand over his face. "I can't explain it."

" _Yes_ , you can." Kyle dropped down onto his knees and reached up, pulling Stan's hand away from his face and squeezing it. "Come on. Please."

"Everything sucks, Kyle." And that was really the long and short of it. He hated this place. He hated waking up in the morning to an empty bed, dragging Jake to school, and then the long stretch of nothing. He hated how his days alternated between taking naps and calling his Mom. He hated how he'd talked to Kenny more than to his own husband in the last week. "I just. Feel."

Kyle shushed him and leaned up, pulling Stan into his arms. "I'm really sorry," he said quietly. "I'm serious, you know, about you going back to Boulder with Jake. If that'll help. I'll come home on weekends. I'll call you every night. If it'll make you feel better-"

"No." Stan shook his head. "I can't. Sometimes you're the only reason I get out of bed in the morning." On the worst days he felt like even Jake didn't need him, which was ridiculous because Jake did need him a lot, just maybe not as much as he had before.

Kyle looked so sad and lost when he pulled away. It made Stan feel worse, knowing he put this on Kyle, too. Like he didn't have enough to worry over all day and night. "You're going to talk to someone," Kyle said. "A professional. Please. Just. I need you to be okay. We're a team and. I need you to be okay."

Stan wondered what he wasn't saying. What words Kyle was self-censoring as he spoke because he thought Stan might break. Kyle was all over him; he was petting Stan's hair and smoothing down the front of his shirt. It was stupid that he'd thought Kyle hadn't noticed. Maybe some of the reason Kyle held on to him so tight at night was this.

"I. Okay." Stan didn't know what else to say, really. It wasn't like he was blind; he knew something was wrong inside his head. It'd been a long time since he felt this way. Years, really, but he remembered the emptiness and the exhaustion. How everything hurt and nothing felt normal.

"I'll make you an appointment, okay?" 

Stan hesitated. "You aren't worried what people will think?"

"I don't give a damn what people think, Stanley." A wounded look crossed Kyle's face for just a moment, but then it was gone. "Who cares about them? This is about you, and getting you well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm welcome! Any comments are very much appreciated. :)


	3. Chapter 3

When he was a kid, which felt like an eon ago most days, Stan saw a therapist once a week. He refused medication--it made him feel like a zombie--so seeing Dr. West every Thursday had been the compromise his mother insisted on.

Dr. West was okay. He'd helped Stan navigate his way through the emotional turmoil of middle school. Stan felt like he had someone in his corner when his parents had finally split up for good. He had someone to talk to about his confused feelings about Kyle, how his relationship with Wendy felt stifling and wrong, how he wanted to punch Cartman in the face more and more every day.

In high school the appointments dwindled to once a month. Wendy dumped him for Token. Randy settled in Denver and didn't come up the driveway drunk on Friday nights, shouting for Sharon to take him back. Cartman got held back in the eighth grade, so Stan's days were blessedly free of him. Spring of Sophomore year, Kyle kissed him and the weird feeling of not quite being alive when Kyle wasn't there finally made sense.

When college came, he moved to Boulder with Kyle to go to CU. He didn't bother to find a new therapist because why would he? He didn't feel lost. The world didn't look dim and shitty anymore. He got a degree and a job. He supported Kyle through law school. They bought a house, got married, had a kid. They made friends. They saw Kenny once a month and when Cartman came around, Stan didn't feel the overwhelming urge to assault him. For the better part of fourteen years, life was pretty great.

Then Kyle ran for congress. They'd agreed, half-drunk on election night at four in the morning, that they'd figure out how to balance this. Kyle would find time to be there for them and Stan would speak up if he was unhappy.

Stan supposed, standing in front of a door with _Dr. William Franklin_ etched into the glass face, that he'd failed to uphold his part of the agreement. He should have said something to Kyle before it got this bad. He'd felt the spiral for weeks and he just let himself get so far down that he couldn't pull himself up. He didn't know what he'd done to get better the first time, all those years ago. He didn't know if he'd really done anything at all.

He promised Kyle he'd do this. He promised himself, too. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

A petite brunette with a pixie cut was behind a desk, talking in low tones to someone on the phone. An ancient TV was perched on a squat little stand in the corner by a row of uncomfortable brown plastic chairs; CNN was on, the volume turned down almost too soft to hear. Stan sat down in one of the chairs.

The woman at the desk hung up and smiled at him. "Stan Marsh?" she asked in that way people do when they already know the answer. She beckoned him over with a wave.

"Yeah," he answered. It took more effort than it should have to heft himself to his feet. 

"Will's just finishing something up," she chirped as she arranged a few papers on a clipboard. She held it out to him. He diligently filled out his insurance paperwork and his medical history while the girl chatted at him about the weather. 

"He'll be ready for you in just a few minutes, okay?" she said. 

"That's fine," he said. He wasn't in any sort of hurry. He was dreading the whole thing, really, so he just went back to his chair and pretended to watch Don Lemon interview some judge from Mississippi about mandatory minimums.

 _I'm in the waiting room_ , he sent to Kyle after a few minutes of sitting there awkwardly, checking at the clock on his lock screen every ten seconds.

 _It'll be fine_ , Kyle answered a few seconds later.

 _I know_. Stan looked up when a door opened and closed. Still not his turn, he supposed. _I just feel awkward_.

 _I've got a vote at 6:30 but I'm coming home right after, I promise_. Stan fought down the urge to kiss his phone. 

_Want me to cook?_

_Nah. I'll pick something up. Got a meeting but good luck! I love you._

"Stan?" 

Dr. Franklin looked more mad scientist than therapist with curly white hair and hornrims, leaning against the open door to his office. He looked too young for the hair, dressed like an aging hipster with too-tight pants and a skinny tie. 

Stan sent _I love you, too_ before he got to his feet again. "That's me," he answered lamely.

"Come on in." Dr. Franklin moved to the side to let Stan pass into the office. "I hope you weren't waiting long."

"A couple minutes," Stan said. He didn't sit down, just sort of stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

"I'm Will," Dr. Franklin said as he shut the door behind him. "It's good to meet you."

Stan's face was caught in some awkward amalgam of a grimace and a smile. "Nice to meet you, too," he said. "I've done this before." 

"I know." 

Will took one of the overstuffed chairs by the windows. He motioned for Stan to sit in the other, which Stan did, perched at the edge of the seat. He was afraid to get comfortable, not until he laid down the ground rules. He wasn't sure if he _should_ , if that was a thing he could do, but he was going to try.

"I don't want medication." That was a hard limit. He wasn't going through that again.

Will nodded once, firmly, and Stan got the feeling that he'd been expecting it. He should have known Kyle would find someone who wasn't a pill pusher.

"I tried it when I was a kid," he said. "I hated it."

"That's fine, Stan. We can just talk." He oozed this weird sort of calm that made Stan feel itchy. Nobody should be so zen.

"Sure. Okay." Stan gave into the urge and scratched his arm nervously, staring at the floor. He was never very good with strangers. The idea of just kind of spewing his feelings out to someone made him choke up and want to bolt. "Uhm. What do you want to know?"

"I'd like to get to know you a little today," he said. "Anything you feel like saying."

Stan glanced up from the beige carpet and sighed. He didn't know what to say so he settled on a recitation of facts. Things he was: thirty six, married, a father, the child of a broken home from a hick town in the Rockies.

"You're pretty far away from home," Will observed when Stan finished.

"Kyle--my husband, his name is Kyle--he's on the Hill," Stan explained. "We've been here for a couple of years."

Will nodded. "Staffer?"

"Congressman, actually," Stan corrected.

"You must be incredibly proud of him."

He huffed out a short laugh. "Yeah. I'm not surprised, though. He's determined. Ambitious? Kind of perfect for it, really."

"And what do you do?"

Stan paused. "Like, for a job?" The doctor nodded. "I'm a full-time dad."

"Have you always been home with--what's your son's name?" Will asked.

"Jacob," he answered. "We call him Jake."

"Have you always been home with him?"

"No." He looked away, down at his sneakers. "I was an engineer. I quit when Kyle got elected."

"And you're comfortable with that arrangement?"

Stan paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. That was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? He wasn't comfortable, hadn't been for weeks. "I don't know," he answered honestly.

"What do you mean?"

"This is all still kind of new, you know? It's been two years, but this is the first time I've been... alone, I guess? Jake's in school, Kyle works all day and night, and I just kind of watch television and zone." His cheeks were hot, he knew he was red and splotchy with embarrassment. He took a few breaths to try and beat back the anxiety that was making his stomach turn. "I feel kind of useless."

"Ah. Kind of?"

Stan jerked one shoulder awkwardly. "Yeah, kind of. I mean. I used to do stuff that maybe wasn't important, but it was important to _me_. I had a job to do that I was really good at." He paused and scratched at his arm again, winced a little. "And then Jake needed me, and the only way this whole thing wasn't going to suck was if we tagged along with Kyle, so I just. Gave that up. And that's okay. I mean, I agreed. I love that I get to be there for my kid whenever he needs me. Watching him grow up is like a miracle. But."

"But you still feel kind of useless?"

Stan blew his hair out of his face and looked up. "Yeah, I mean. He's six. I know he needs me, you know, in my head? I know it. I just don't always _feel_ like it. I don't understand why."

Will leaned forward. "You have a history of depression, Stan."

"I got better."

"That doesn't mean it's gone forever. That doesn't mean you'll feel this way forever, either," he said. "We'll work on it."

*

Stan was laying across the bed sideways, kind of half-watching Kyle shower. He'd made it home at seven-thirty with Chinese take-out and ten thousand questions, so Stan was grateful for the reprieve Kyle's shower offered from his interrogation and more grateful for whoever had the idea to put a glass door on the shower in the master bath. That alone almost justified the seven hundred thousand dollar mortgage.

"Hey," Kyle called. 

"What?"

"Did you pick up Jake's work?"

"What?" Stan repeated.

"Jake's work, for Friday." Kyle poked his head out of the shower door. "We're going home this weekend, Stan, did you forget?"

He _had_ forgotten, completely. "Yes," he admitted. "I'll get it tomorrow."

Kyle sighed and ducked back into the shower. A few minutes later, the water shut off and Kyle came out of the bathroom in his bathrobe, scrubbing at his hair with a towel. 

"The calendar on the fridge is there for a reason, you know," he said. There wasn't anything accusatorial in his voice, just a kind of quiet resignation that Stan didn't like at all.

"I haven't been thinking about it, is all." Stan crawled up onto his knees and tugged Kyle into his arms. He pulled the towel off of Kyle's head and tossed it in the general direction of the hamper. It missed, landing wetly on the floor. Kyle twitched, resisting the urge to go pick it up. 

"I'm excited, I guess," Stan decided.

"You guess."

Stan shrugged and pulled them both down against the pillows. "I mean, you're going to have stuff to do."

"Just a check-in on Saturday morning, but Karen and Rick are coming to the house," Kyle said. He threaded his fingers through Stan's hair and scratched gently at his scalp. Stan closed his eyes. It felt incredibly good. A little, contented noise escaped his throat. 

"Your mom's picking us up at the airport," Kyle continued. "We're going to Longhorn. Kenny texted me and asked if he could stop by. I told him Sunday."

Stan _mmm_ 'd into Kyle's neck. He pressed a kiss there, fingers deftly unknotting the belt to Kyle's robe. 

Kyle shivered and swatted at Stan's hands. "Stanley. Pay _attention_."

"Kenny. Sunday. Something about Mom." Stan looked up at Kyle's face. There was a ghost of a smirk there as Kyle squirmed out of his robe. "I couldn't tell you how much I don't want to talk about my mom right now."

"Yeah, I bet." Kyle's fingers slid down the back of Stan's t-shirt. "So you had a good day?"

"We already talked about this," Stan murmured. They'd talked about it at dinner but Jake was there. Stan didn't want to hide it from him exactly, but he didn't want to drag Jake into the middle of it. He should've known that Kyle would ask him about it again. 

"Maybe I wanna talk some more." Kyle was stroking Stan's back softly, just under the hem of his shirt, and it was giving Stan goosebumps in the best way. He didn't feel much like talking. He was half hard just from the _thought_ of sex on a weeknight. Kyle was always too exhausted to do much else but sleep.

"You talked enough for seven people today. I watched."

Kyle chuckled. "Can't get enough of that hot House floor action, huh?" He nudged Stan's chin up and kissed him.

"Not when it's you, all fired up about educating America's children." Stan slid his hand into Kyle's copper curls. "Your chairman's a dick, by the way."

"My chairman doesn't believe in evolution." Kyle sighed and nuzzled a little closer. "I'm pretty sure he can't even _spell_ evolution. He's an idiot who is a perfect example of exactly _why_ cutting education spending is-"

"Shhhh." Stan kissed him quiet.

Kyle pulled away regretfully. "Seriously, Stan. How was your appointment?"

Stan shrugged. He couldn't concentrate when Kyle was pressed up against him, naked and still warm from the shower. He smelled good, too, like the citrus shampoo he used to try to control his hair. "It was fine. We just talked."

"Yeah?" Kyle's hand moved up Stan's back, his fingers stroking along Stan's spine. "About anything in particular?"

"Me. You. Jake." Stan closed his eyes and tugged Kyle back into another kiss. "Just, you know. Getting to know me."

"You like him?"

" _Kyle._ "

"Do I need to go put pants on?" Stan rolled and pinned him in one swift, fluid motion, and Kyle laughed. "I guess not."

"Don't you dare." Stan ducked his head to nuzzle against Kyle's smooth cheek. "Yes, I like him. I'm going back next week." He bit down gently on Kyle's earlobe. "Are we done talking now?" he murmured.

"Yes." It was barely a word, more of a hiss, and Stan grinned against Kyle's jaw. This was a thing that he always cherished, even on his worst days.

***

By the time they landed in Denver on Friday evening, it was going on six o'clock. Stan was bone-tired from wrangling a cranky kid and a stressed out husband. Sharon was waiting for them at the baggage claim, camped out near the carousel, paging through a copy of Entertainment Weekly. He hoped she hadn't been there for very long. Their layover in Chicago had been delayed twice and they'd been stuck on the runway at O'Hare for almost an hour. 

Kyle loosed his grip on Jake's coat when he spotted Sharon. Jake tore across the space between them, hopping up and down with excitement when he skidded to a stop in front of his grandmother.

"Nana!" he shouted, falling into her lap throwing his arms around her. The magazine crinkled under him.

Sharon scooped him up into her arms and peppered his face with kisses, laughing as he tried to squirm away from her. "There's my grandbaby," she said. "And my baby. And my favorite son in law," she added when Kyle dragged Stan over to her by the elbow.

"Hey, Sharon." Kyle leaned down and kissed her cheek. She gave his shoulder a squeeze then turned her attention on Stan.

"Hey, honey," she said. "How're you feeling?"

"Good. Glad to be home." It was honest at least. He was the only person in his little family who _wasn't_ in a rotten mood today.

She let Jake escape her lap so she could stand up and wrap Stan in the tightest hug he'd gotten from his mom in recent memory. "I'm so happy to see you," she said.

"Me, too," he replied. "I'm glad you could come down."

She squeezed him tight again and then pulled away, holding him at arm's length and giving him the once over. "I've missed you," she told him. "Of course I came down. Did you check any bags?"

"No," Kyle said. He was struggling to get Jake's hat on his head. "We've got everything we need at the house." 

"So I'm ready when you boys are ready," Sharon said. She shared an amused look with Stan when Jake ducked Kyle's third attempt to get his beanie on his head, then excused herself to go start the car and left Stan standing there, hiding a smile behind his hand.

Kyle looked up helplessly at Stan. "A little help, maybe, instead of standing there smirking at me," he grumbled. "Jacob Elliot, I swear to God." 

Jake froze. He looked up at Kyle with his big, wide eyes and grudgingly allowed Kyle to shove the hat onto his head.

"He's pumped up," Stan said as Kyle shouldered his carry-on. "Let him work it out of his system."

"If he throws a fit in the restaurant, you're dealing with it," Kyle warned as he made his way to the door.

The parking lot was a slushy mess. Kyle trudged across it with Jake hot on his heels, splashing through the puddles Kyle was trying hopelessly to avoid. The back of his jeans were wet and half-frozen and Stan could see his frustration growing with every step. 

"God, Jake, stop," Kyle demanded sharply. "Child, were you raised in a barn?"

"Nuh-uh," Jake answered. "I was raised in a _house_ , Daddy."

"You could maybe act like it!"

Jake wilted. Stan scooped him up, wet boots and all, and kissed his hair. 

"Aw, dude, leave Daddy alone," he suggested. "He's had a long day."

"M'sorry," Jake said, "but it's not my fault Daddy's a Grumpy Gus."

Stan tried to choke back a laugh. Kyle glared at him over his shoulder. He brooded all the way to the back of the short-term parking, where Sharon's salt-covered Pilot was waiting for them. Kyle dumped his bag in the back of the truck and tried hopelessly to clean off the back of his pants while Stan unloaded Jake out of his arms into his booster seat.

"I think he's trying to do me in. Seriously, in some sort of weird revenge for, I don't know," Kyle said as Stan closed the door, "something. He has it out for me."

"He's six. He has it out for everyone. He's been stuck in airports and on airplanes for like twelve hours. Give him a break." Stan kissed him. "C'mon, we're home!"

A little smile cracked through the severe look on Kyle's face. "I'm glad you're perking up, at least," Kyle said as he pushed Stan towards the front of the Pilot. "I'll sit with Jake."

"Don't lecture him on puddle-jumping," Stan warned as he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

Sharon made Stan check his belt twice before she backed out of the spot. He couldn't smother the grin at how even now, eighteen years out of her house, she still pestered him the same as she had when he was twelve.

"Have you called your father recently?" she asked as she pulled out of the lot.

"No." Stan glanced away from the window, towards her. "Is he okay?"

She sighed. "He's fine. He emailed, said he hadn't heard from you lately."

"It's not like he doesn't have a phone." Stan hated the way Randy acted. It wasn't solely on Stan to maintain a relationship but Randy, of course, could never be adult enough to pick up the phone and dial. "He could've called me."

"You know your father." She glanced at Stan, frowning. "He wants to have a relationship with Jake, you know, and he feels left out of your life."

"Why? It's not like he doesn't know where I live." Stan shook his head. That wasn't entirely fair. For all he knew, Randy came up his driveway once a week only to find a dark, empty house. He doubted it. "If he's not going to make the effort, I'm just--I can't be the only one who tries. I called him on New Year's, by the way, and he still hasn't called me back. That was, what, a month ago? And he's bitching to you, like I don't _try_."

"Alright, Stanley." She sounded resigned. 

Stan was half pissed at himself for upsetting her but they'd been distant for a long time, ever since Stan mustered up the confidence to tell him about Kyle two fucking _decades_ ago. They didn't understand how to talk to each other anymore. Or at least, Stan couldn't talk without yelling and Randy pretended that Kyle didn't exist, which made Stan yell louder. It was better for everyone if they only saw each other two or three times a year.

He looked away from the window when Sharon patted his knee. "I just don't want you to cut your father out of your life."

"I'm not, Mom." Stan squeezed her hand. "We saw each other at Christmas. We'll see each other at Easter. That's the relationship we have."

She let the topic drop. They chatted about other things on the drive to Longhorn instead. Sharon retired back in September and was full of stories about her trip to this resort in Jamaica, one of those all-inclusive places. She apparently spent most of her time on the beach with a margarita and a book, soaking in the sun. Stan was happy for her. Nobody deserved retirement as much as she did. She'd busted her ass for a long time to keep a roof over his head and food on the table. He wanted her most pressing issue to be whether or not Linda Stotch was going to make dry oatmeal cookies for their Hearts game on Wednesdays.

They were a few miles away from the restaurant when she finally asked how Stan's appointment went. He was surprised she managed to hold out asking for that long. He'd expected to be ambushed with it at the airport.

"Fine," he said. He flicked his gaze up into the rearview. Kyle and Jake were deep in conversation about something on Jake's iPad, not listening.

"Just fine?" she asked.

"He's nice. We're talking."

"And you're okay? Really?"

"It's not like it was before," he told her quietly. "It's not that bad."

"I just worry about you."

"Don't," he said as she pulled into the parking lot. "That's Kyle's job now."

She parked and cut the engine, then turned to him again. That serious look was still on her face. 

"It'll always be my job," she replied. "You have to understand that."

Stan glanced over his shoulder at Jake as he unbuckled his seatbelt. He couldn't imagine a minute of his life where he wouldn't worry about him. 

"Yeah," he agreed. "I do."

***

"How was Colorado?" Dr. Franklin asked when Stan peeked in his office door on Monday afternoon, latte in hand.

He was late, but stopping for coffee had been a priority. They hadn't gotten back into the house until after midnight last night and Stan was dragging ass because of it. Flying always exhausted him, especially in the winter. Crossing the country always meant at least one delay.

"Nice. Great," he said as he closed the door behind him. "I caught up with my mom, saw some friends." He sipped his drink. It had been good, even if it was too short. "I made some plans for next week. Kyle's got a district week, so I promise I'm not bunking out on you, Will."

"I'm glad to hear you made some plans. I think it's a good idea to try to be less insular. How's your mood?"

Stan shrugged. "Okay. The weather's been nice, so that helps. Kyle stopped waking up at five in the morning so I'm sleeping better."

Will nodded. "That helps?"

"Not waking up twice helps. Not waking up alone helps. The days are better when he's there in the morning." Stan sipped his drink again, used the moment to gather his thoughts. "What did you mean, earlier? About being insular?"

Will cocked his head to the side and just watched him for a few moments. "You spend a lot of time alone. You told me about your volunteering, and that's great, but I think it's a good idea for you to spend some time with your friends."

"They're there, I'm here." Stan shrugged again. "I see them when I can."

"Have you gotten to know anyone in Washington?"

"A few people at the humane society. The girls at Starbucks?" He thought for a while. "I'm friendly with a few people, Jake's friends' parents, mostly. We're not close, though."

"Any reason?"

"Well, one of them is the ambassador of Australia. We don't have an awful lot in common."

Will laughed softly. "No, I can't imagine you would." He sobered. "I think, Stan, as a sort of homework assignment, you should look into some other volunteering. Get out of the house some more. Meet people with similar interests."

They spent the rest of their forty-five minutes talking about the trip. He liked having someone to talk to. He had Kyle, of course, but it was nice to be able to tell someone how much he loathed flying home because Kyle became an irritable mess in airports. Stan told him about the endless stream of delays at O'Hare; how his mom was worried about him; how Kenny came over and brought the dog. Stan missed the dog a lot. He got Chance when he was a little puppy, just big enough to fit in both hands, and he was glad that Kenny volunteered to take him in when it became evident that they wouldn't be able to take care of him anymore with all the back and forth.

Will reminded him about his homework when Stan was heading for the door. Stan promised to look into it, even though he didn't know where to start with something like that.

His appointment ran almost too close to three o'clock. He jogged the distance from Dr. Franklin's office to the front doors of George Washington Prep, worrying the entire way that Jake was going to be standing outside waiting, peering nervously down the sidewalk, wondering where his dad was.

He wasn't late, just barely on time, and he caught his breath while he watched the older kids disperse down the sidewalks. Jake bounded out the front door a few minutes later, backpack bouncing against his back. Sam and Charlie were hot on his heels, all three of them laughing. They stood in a huddle for a little while, whispering furiously, before Sam broke off to run to the embassy car waiting for him. Stan rested his arms on top of the fence, a little smile on his face, patiently watching Jake and Charlie trade Pokemon cards for a while.

"Oh, thank God. You're still here. I thought I was going to be late." 

Stan turned his head and stared at a frazzled-looking Kyle, who was rushing up the sidewalk towards him, weaving through sixth graders who were loitering on the pavement.

"Where'd you come from?" he asked, confused, because Kyle shouldn't be there at all. 

Kyle waved one gloved hand vaguely in the direction of the Capitol. "I had some free time. He looks adorable, by the way, look. With his little friend," he said, shooting an adoring look at Jake.

"Yeah." Stan paused. Kyle's days were tight and complicated and merited a full-time scheduler to keep track of them. There was no such thing as _free time_ in D.C. "Seriously, Kyle. It's--You've--You should be at work."

Kyle rolled his eyes as he tucked himself against Stan's side. He bumped his hip against Stan's and squeezed his waist affectionately. "I found some time, okay?" he said. "Just. Let's get our kid and go home. Unless you were going to do something?" 

He glanced up at Stan, then looked back over toward Jake, who was nodding along to whatever rapid-fire story was coming out of Charlie's mouth.

"No." Stan felt kind of dizzy, like maybe he'd fallen asleep in Dr. Franklin's office and this was a very nice dream. "No plans today."

*

_Stan,  
Your mom said she saw you last weekend. I wish you called me and let me know you were home. I miss you and that grandson of mine. He's probably grown a lot since Christmas, hasn't he?_

He'd been having such a nice afternoon, too, Stan thought as he read Randy's email.

He knew it was only a matter of time before his dad got around to emailing him. Step one was always attempting to make contact through Sharon, like she was Stan's secretary. Stan himself didn't even figure in until somewhere around step three, which was when Randy apparently remembered that Stan didn't live on Mars and could be contacted by normal human means.

The only unfortunate thing about email as a medium was that Stan couldn't shout at it without people looking at him funny. 'People' in this situation was fortunately just Kyle, who was lounging next to him on the couch with his bare feet up on the coffee table, yawning every few minutes as he read his way through a stack of memos he brought home with him from the office.

He read the email through twice before he gave in to the urge. "Have I ever told you how much my dad sucks?" he asked. 

"Only about five thousand times in the last thirty-five years," Kyle said. "What's he up to now?"

"Giving me grief. Here, listen: _I would've driven up to Boulder if I knew you were around, buddy. We never see each other anymore!_ " Stan pushed his laptop away from him, almost off the edge of the coffee table and scoffed. "Really, Randy?"

Kyle peered over the top of his memo, reading glasses slipping down his nose. "So he misses you. Tell him to stop by next week or something."

"No way, not when he says shit like ' _I want to take you and Jake out to dinner, or bowling, or something_ ', and I really don't think he means the plural you." Stan slammed the laptop lid shut. "I'm over the way he treats you."

Kyle sighed and dropped the memo into his lap. "I can fight my own battles, Stan. You don't need to ignore your dad-"

"It's my battle, too, you know," Stan interrupted. "He says he loves me and your son, he should at least speak to you."

" _Our_ son, you mean," Kyle corrected. He pulled himself up out of his slouch and planted his feet on the floor, staring at Stan with a wary look on his face.

Stan waved a hand dismissively. "Our son," he agreed, " _your_ genetic legacy, whatever. You know what I mean."

"No, Stan, sometimes I don't." Kyle picked up his memo again and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Randy doesn't like me. I've made my peace with that. Go to lunch with him. Take Jake. I'll be in the office anyway."

"I really don't want to spend an hour and a half talking about the Broncos and trying not to yell at him when he refuses to acknowledge your existence." Stan had to force himself not to snap at Kyle. Randy was one part bumbling idiot and two parts ignorant hick, but that wasn't Kyle's fault at all and he didn't want to take it out on him.

"Do you know how many times I've had to be nice to random strangers who think our marriage should be against the law?" Kyle asked, exasperation leaking into his voice. He tossed the memo on the table next to Stan's laptop, seemingly giving up on it. "I have polling information that says a quarter of the people in the district don't like me based solely on the fact that I love you. I've had people over to this house for _meals_ that are uncomfortable with us. He's your dad. Go bowling with him next week."

"Wait, you've had people like that over here?" Stan asked, outraged. "We have rules, Kyle." 

Stan kind of wanted to break things. He wasn't an ideologue about a lot of things, but there were things that mattered--climate change, health care, his own damn civil rights, those were closed issues. He didn't want to be around those people, didn't want Jake around them, and secretly hoped that Kyle flipped them off behind their backs in the hallways.

"Have you heard a single word about it before now?" Kyle asked. "I don't host debates on gay rights in the dining room. I need some of those people for the things I'm trying to do." He tossed his glasses on top of his memo and rubbed at his temples. "Sometimes you have to have relationships with people who aren't a hundred percent on board with you, is what I'm saying."

Stan stood up and stomped into the kitchen. He took a glass down from the cupboard and stood there for a minute, breathing, trying to will himself to not want to throw it against the wall and fill it with water instead. The couch creaked. Stan heard Kyle shuffling across the kitchen floor. He tentatively wrapped his arms around Stan's middle from behind and rested his chin on Stan's shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly. "I'll have those meetings in the office if you want me to."

Stan set the water glass down and turned around in Kyle's arms. He shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was be part of the reason Kyle holed up on the Hill all day and night. He probably _would_ let him host a debate in the dining room if it meant he'd be home.

"No. Sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you." He dropped a kiss on Kyle's cheek. "I'm not the belief police. I'm just pissed off."

"About Randy?"

Stan nodded. "I see him on holidays. That's more than he deserves, anyway."

Kyle pulled away. He hopped up onto the counter and watched Stan for a while, silent, twisting his hands in his lap. Stan could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

"You don't mean that," he finally said when Stan moved to stand between his legs.

"I do mean that," Stan insisted. "If Gerald ignored me every time we went over to your parents' house, would you want to go there?"

"Dad would never ignore you." Kyle reached up and caged Stan's face between his hands. "My parents love you, dude."

"I know that." Stan leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. "That wasn't my question."

"Mom would kill him," Kyle answered. "I wouldn't have to avoid him because he'd be dead. Head on a pike. Here lies Gerald Broflovski, he invoked Sheila's rage for the last time."

Stan pulled away. "You're dodging my question, you know."

"Caught me," Kyle replied. "I play with the pros now, honey. I'm the king of cagey answers."

"I'm not the opposition."

"You certainly aren't that," Kyle agreed. He thought for a while. "I'd still see him."

"You would?" Stan asked, surprised.

"What, and miss the opportunity to passive-aggressively bring you up every twenty seconds?" Kyle smirked a little and tugged Stan close again. "It's like you don't know me at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Stan remembered that he was supposed to be finding something to do with himself during the days, or at least coming up with a half-decent reason why he just wanted to sit on the couch, it was Saturday night. Vinay and Lois had taken him and Kyle out to Spaghetti Warehouse for the express purpose of bitching about Stan's replacement at SolTech--who they were still calling Not Stan, though probably more out of habit than real resentment nowadays--and he'd gotten a little carried away with the house Chianti.

Stan never thought he was a particularly good manager. He was terrible at conflict resolution, bad at delegation, and utterly useless come performance review time, since he _liked_ everyone who worked for him. Apparently poor Garrett wasn't living up to Stan's legacy, which really just amounted to potluck Fridays, group retreats to Vail, and a lot of leeway on pet projects. When they met during the transition, Stan thought Garrett would make it maybe three months with his merry band of misfits. He was astonished the guy was still trucking along, two and a half years later.

It felt good to be missed, though.

Now he was sitting on the couch, watching the highlights from last night's Avalanche game on ESPN. Kyle was chattering on the phone in the kitchen; probably his mom, who was coming down for dinner tomorrow. It was their turn to host the family for dinner. Stan liked going up to South Park more, or even across town to Ike's condo. He didn't see the appeal in being a host. It always exhausted him.

Jake was half asleep, curled up in the armchair, determined to keep his eyes open despite it being nine thirty and well past his bedtime. He liked his babysitter just fine, but he didn't like getting left behind when Kyle and Stan went out. Stan always felt terrible about it, too; Jake didn't see Kyle often enough as it was. He let bedtime slide on nights like these.

So he was a little drunk while he was googling. He didn't even know where to start. Sure, he liked stuff, but the extent of his involvement in community groups had always been whatever Kyle was doing. He was perfectly happy staying home and shooting aliens on his Xbox. Kyle was the one who dragged them both into things--College Democrats, the GSA, Habitat for Humanity, those were things Stan _liked_ , sure, but he probably never would've gone to a meeting without Kyle sometimes literally dragging him there. Personally, he was stoked on managing to pass his math classes back then. He'd joined an engineering group in college, but that was strictly for networking. He didn't have the same luxuries as other people--he didn't have years after college to take unpaid internships.

Thinking about it, Stan couldn't remember anything he'd done in recent history for himself. Even the ASPCA thing, that had started because Jake was upset about leaving Chance in Colorado. Stan kept up with it out of obligation more than anything else.

He decided, as he typed ' _volunteer opportunities in washington dc_ ' into Google, that he was probably the most codependent, pathetic person in the known universe. Maybe it was about time he did something for himself, although he didn't really know what that should be. A lot of who he was was tied up intrinsically with Kyle, and the rest of him was built out of love for his son. He wondered if that wasn't the collateral damage that came with falling in love with his best friend. He didn't know what life was like without Kyle attached to his hip.

"What're you doing?" Kyle asked as he sprawled out onto the couch next to Stan, phone still wedged between his ear and his shoulder. "No, Ma, not you."

"Just looking at stuff," Stan answered. He angled his laptop away from Kyle, but Kyle wasn't the kind of person who could take a damn clue sometimes, so Stan wasn't surprised when he leaned over, practically falling into Stan's lap, and squinted at the screen.

"Volunteering?"

"Yeah." Stan put the laptop down on the empty cushion next to him. He'd never been particularly productive with a lap full of Kyle.

He could hear Sheila saying something over the phone. Kyle laughed softly and dropped down, resting his head against Stan's thigh. "I'm gonna go, Ma. I'll see you tomorrow." He looked up at Stan and rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mother. I love you, too." 

He tossed his phone onto the coffee table with a sigh and rolled over, burying his nose in the fabric of Stan's trousers. "She wouldn't stop telling me about South Park gossip. Like I need that in my life." He sighed happily while Stan gently scratched at the back of his neck. "Did you know Butters moved back?"

"Yeah," Stan said. He moved his fingers up into Kyle's curls. "Kenny told me. He's living with Tweek."

"Wait, living with or _living with_?"

"Oh, God," Stan muttered, cringing. "They're roommates. I don't even want to-- Butters and _Tweek_?"

"That should be a reality show," Kyle told him. "Either way, I don't care. I want cameras in that house." He turned his head and stared up at Stan. "What're you volunteering for?"

"I don't even know," Stan answered. "It's stupid."

"It's probably not."

Stan shrugged. "Dr. Franklin said I should find some stuff to do while the house is empty."

"That's a good idea." He sat up, winced when Stan's ring got caught in his hair. "I worry about you, stuck in that house all day," he said as Stan carefully tried to untangle his hand without tearing out Kyle's hair.

"I don't just stare at the walls, you know. I do stuff."

Kyle caught Stan's freed hand and brought it up to his face, kissing Stan's palm. "Yes, you do," he said. "You just do it alone. You aren't some, like. I don't know-- Rapunzel, you aren't Rapunzel."

"No," Stan said slowly. "I'm definitely not. What?"

"Locked in a tower, alone." Kyle shifted uncomfortably. He had his serious face on, lips drawn down into a frown, eyebrows crinkled together. The lines around his eyes stood out stark against his pale skin--Stan worried fleetingly that he wasn't getting enough sun.

"Don't worry so much," Stan told him. "I'm going to be okay."

Kyle shook his head. "But you aren't okay right now and I feel..." He paused and sighed, glancing over at Jake, who'd fallen asleep, head lolling to the side with his lamb tucked up under his arm. "I feel kind of responsible," Kyle admitted. 

"You aren't," Stan insisted. Kyle just shook his head and tucked himself against Stan's chest. 

It was kind of breaking his heart. This wasn't Kyle's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault, just brain chemistry or long-held baggage, left over from a childhood that was kind of damaging. South Park ate people alive. If this was the only price Stan had to pay to escape, he didn't mind the fee. He got more than he gave: Kyle, Jake, their life together, their cramped little townhouse, all of it, right down to the ugly yellow tile in the kitchen: it was a miracle. Sometimes he forgot how utterly fucking lucky he was to get this. He built a life out of love. 

Stan squeezed Kyle, rested his chin against the top of his frizzy head, and hoped that Kyle could feel all the things he couldn't put into words. 

***

In the early days, when Kyle was still making charts about whether or not he should run, the con at the top of every list was _Eric Cartman will try to assassinate me_. He wasn't serious about it--at least Stan hoped he wasn't--but neither of them were surprised when Cartman showed up on their front step with a photocopy of a check for five hundred dollars made out to Kyle's opponent. 

Cartman was mellowing with age, Stan thought, as he opened the front door on a freezing Sunday morning in February. The worst damage he managed now was making Stan drag his ass out of bed at six o'clock on a snowy Sunday morning. He was standing there on the front step in a cheap suit and loud polka dot tie, puffed out in the chest, hair slicked back, with that obnoxious smirk on his face as he gave Stan the once over.

"Being a housewife suits you," he said in a nasty tone that made Stan's blood boil. "Where's Kyle?"

"Sleeping," Stan answered. "Like I was." _Asshole_ , he added in his head. He knew better than to take Cartman's bait. He got off on getting under peoples' skin and it was long Stan's policy to not give that fat fuck any sort of pleasure. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

Cartman took in a deep breath. "I believe it is my constitutional right to petition the government with a list of my grievances, _Stan_. I know you're probably too busy with your soap operas and yoga classes or whatever to pay attention to affairs of the state, but I'm still a tax paying citizen with concerns about what your crackpot of a life partner is doing to this country."

Stan took a few deep, calming breaths and tried to will away the urge to slam the door in Cartman's face. It wouldn't help. He'd sit out there all day, ringing the doorbell and pounding on the windows until one of them let him in, and then the rant would be twofold: one for ignoring him, followed by whatever dragged him down the mountain in the first place.

"You live in South Park," Stan pointed out. "That's the Fifth. You're Lamborn's problem, not Kyle's."

"Believe me when I say I thank God every day for that," Cartman said. He shouldered past Stan into the front room. 

Stan hated the way Cartman always waltzed in, lip curled, every time he came over, like they lived in some kind of hovel. The house wasn't big or impressive, but it was home. They owned it outright, which was more than Cartman could say for anything in _his_ life. He still lived with his mother. Liane's name was on the title for Cartman's beat up, half-dead Toyota. 

"He's asleep, Cartman," Stan pointed out again as he closed the door. He moved to the middle of the room, bodily blocking Cartman from the stairs. "I'm not going to wake him up so you can air your grievances, or whatever. Sunday's the only day he gets to sleep in."

"I'm not going anywhere until I get answers." He brandished the thick stack of papers rubber banded together and jabbed the corner of it into Stan's chest. "He's attacking my civil liberties!"

"If only they'd let me," Kyle said as he clunked down the stairs, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He leaned tiredly against the railing on the last step and yawned. "What brings you shouting down our front door this time, Cartman? Carbon emissions standards? Living wage?" Kyle raised his eyebrows. "No, wait, probably equal rights in employment."

"Kyle, as I was telling Mr. Mom over here-"

"Shut your goddamned mouth, Cartman," Kyle snapped. "You don't get to come into our house and insult us. If you want a meeting, call my office."

He scoffed. "Please, like I haven't tried that. Karen hangs up on me. She wouldn't even tell me when you were going to be back in town."

"I'm sure it took all of your considerable brain power to uncover the publicly available Congressional calendar." 

Kyle looked caught somewhere between amusement and frustration, but mostly he just looked exhausted. Stan wondered if he couldn't just punch Cartman out and put an end to the whole thing right then and there, but an assault charge would cause a scandal, and Kyle would get upset.

"I'm exercising my first amendment rights!" Cartman blustered.

On second thought, Stan thought it might be worth it. He'd had this recurring fantasy in middle school of knocking at least one of Cartman's teeth out of his mouth, usually while defending Kyle's honor. One of the great regrets of Stan's youth was that he never actually worked up the nerve to do it.

He took another step forward, into Cartman's personal space. He smelled like pancakes and sausage, body odor seeped in maple syrup, like he hadn't had a chance to shower after work. Stan wrinkled his nose. He didn't actually want to touch a human-sized Grand Slamwitch.

"You don't have a constitutional right to wake me up at six in the morning," Kyle said. He tugged the sleeves of his ancient Colorado Law sweatshirt down to try and hide the fact that he'd balled his hands into fists. "You aren't even one of my constituents. It's my day off. _Call the office_."

Cartman dropped the packet on the floor. It landed with a heavy thunk, barely missing Stan's bare toes. Stan eyed it warily. It was at least a hundred pages, maybe more, typed in a tiny, single-spaced font. Apparently being night manager at the Denny's in Fairplay wasn't fulfilling enough, so Cartman _still_ filled his time with creepily stalking Kyle's every move.

"I didn't drive two hours out of my way-"

"Why the hell _did_ you drive down here? Is it still the pinnacle of your life to annoy the shit out me?" Kyle cocked his head to the side. "It is, isn't it? That's so sad."

Cartman just stared at him, arms crossed, lips pursed. It had been a long time since Cartman and Kyle legitimately went to blows, but the nasty look on Cartman's face brought Stan back to elementary school, down by Stark's Pond--the last day he'd ever called Eric Cartman his friend. Kyle won that fight, but Cartman broke Kyle's kneecap and got banished along with Butters to a lunch table across the cafeteria.

"Leave the manifesto," Kyle said, breaking the tense silence that had blanketed the entryway. "I'll have Karen make an appointment for you on Thursday."

"I work on Thursdays. Tomorrow," Cartman said.

"No can do," Kyle replied. "I do individual concern meetings on Thursdays. I'm booked for the rest of the week."

"I can't just cut out of work. Some of us make an honest living," Cartman said.

"Get an appointment with Lamborn, then, _like you're supposed to_ ," Kyle answered. "He's more your type anyway."

Cartman took a step forward, nearly chest-to-chest with Stan. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what you think it means, you racist, sexist, homophobic piece of human garbage," Kyle said, so matter-of-factly even Stan was startled. 

Cartman just stood there gaping for a minute but then he recovered and sneered at them both. "I can't believe you managed to dupe a plurality of anyone but fucking stoned hippies that you're worth electing."

"An absolute majority, actually," Kyle corrected. "Not a plurality. Fifty-eight percent of the fine people in the Colorado Second seem to like me just fine. They probably weren't _all_ stoned on election day. Get out of our house."

Cartman narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms and stared past Stan at Kyle, who didn't move a muscle. Kyle just stood there, slumped across the railing, until Cartman turned on his heel and went for the door.

Stan watched through the slats of the blinds until Cartman's beat up Corolla rounded the corner south on Granite. When he turned around, Kyle was still leaning against the railing on the bottom landing, head hanging, exhaustion marring his face. 

"You should go back to sleep," Stan suggested.

Kyle shook his head. "I'm up now. Fucking Cartman."

"You're really going to read his thing?" Stan asked as he hurried across the floor and gathered Kyle up in his arms. He looked like he was going to pass out on the staircase. They hadn't gotten to sleep until after two and while Kyle was fully capable of surviving on four hours of sleep, he couldn't do it for seven days in a row.

"Yeah," Kyle said around a yawn. "Why not? It'll be hysterical. Can you imagine? Cartman going off the rails over my voting record, a novel."

"Your floor speech on ENDA alone is probably worth twenty pages."

"Probably." Kyle shook his head, chuckling, and let Stan march him up the stairs. "The coffee pot is in the other direction."

"The bed is this way, though," Stan said.

"I'm fine." Kyle paused at the top of the stairs. "Really. Just put some coffee in me and I'm good to go."

Jake peered around the edge of his half open bedroom door. "You're loud," he said sleepily. 

Kyle slid out from under Stan's arm and crouched down in the doorway. "Sorry, dude," he said, reaching out and pinching Jake's cheek. "I think Dad's making me go back to sleep, though. We'll be quiet."

Jake rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Can I come?" he asked.

"Sure," Kyle agreed. "Family naptime."

He ruffled Jake's hair and laughed when Jake ducked away from him, back into his room. He emerged a few seconds later, clutching his stuffed lamb and dragging his blanket along behind him. Stan let him lead the way across the hall, then collapsed back onto his pillow while Kyle and Jake had a quiet argument about who was going to lie where.

Jake wound up burrowed between them, head tucked under Kyle's chin, wrapped up like an adorable burrito in his blanket. Stan threw his arm across the both of them, curled his fingers around Kyle's hip, and closed his eyes when he heard Kyle's little, contented sigh. He stayed awake until Jake's breathing evened out and Kyle started making those little snuffling noises that proved he was asleep.

Maybe he should send Cartman a thank you note, he thought as he slipped back into sleep. This was exactly how he wanted to spend his Sunday morning.

*

Sunday afternoon, on the other hand, wound up being hectic. They weren't in town that often, so there was a rotating list of family and friends that descended on the Marsh-Broflovski household for impromptu dinner parties: Kenny, Ike, Sheila and Gerald, Sharon, Jimbo, Vinay and Lois, occasionally even Craig and Bebe, which still managed to be surprising.

This particular Sunday was reserved for the Broflovskis, which meant that the afternoon was a slow spiral into madness. One time, long before they bought the house, when they were still in a shitty studio apartment near CU, Sheila commented on their housekeeping. Once. And now every time his in-laws came over, Stan got a rehash of a fifteen year old comment made in passing about the pile of dirty laundry on the floor by the bathroom door.

At four, Stan was relieved to be able to escape into the kitchen to cook, because that meant he could avoid Kyle, armed with a bottle of Pledge and on a warpath. Even Jake knew better than to get underfoot. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his iPad, quietly doing his homework.

"You need any help?" Stan asked as he passed behind him.

Jake shook his head. "I'm good at sums," he said. He bit his lip and looked up at Stan. "Is Daddy done? I wanna watch cartoons."

"No." Stan pulled open the fridge door and rifled through for the chicken, which was definitely in there somewhere, behind styrofoam take-home boxes and Kyle's sugar-free energy drinks. "He'll calm down when gramma and grampa get here."

"I hope they bring me presents," Jake said.

"Yeah?" Stan glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. "What did you do to deserve presents?"

"Gramma says I'm cute." Jake furrowed his eyebrows and poked his screen.

"Gramma used to tell me _I_ was cute, but she didn't give me presents just for being adorable." Stan glanced back into the fridge and extracted the chicken from between a bottle of orange juice and a stack of lunchables.

"She says you got the best present ever."

Stan considered that. "She gave me a really nice tie once." He was sure that was because she was afraid he was going to go to job interviews in his Greenpeace t-shirt. "And Broncos tickets for me and Daddy, but that was for my birthday, not just for being cute."

"She meant me," Kyle said as he swept in from the dining room. He reeked of lemons and his bandana was falling off his head, revealing a mess of flattened, tangled curls. "Not the tie, the wallet, the kippah, _or_ the Broncos tickets. Just me."

Stan caught him around the middle as he passed by. "Hey, you aren't a present. Nobody gave you to me."

" _I_ gave me to you." He leaned up and pecked Stan's lips. "Which is what she meant, I promise. Although, frankly, if she thinks I just fell in love with those big blue eyes of yours, she's sadly mistaken." Kyle smoothed his hands down the front of Stan's shirt. "Although you are quite a catch, physically."

Jake let out a little, annoyed sigh. "Can you be gross in another place?" he whined.

"Can you maybe get a job and pay the bills before you try to order me around?" Kyle asked. He kissed Stan again. "I'm going to take a shower before Mom makes a disparaging comment on my eau de Pledge. And you." He turned on Jake and smiled down at him. "You should be glad Dad and I are gross, cuz if we weren't, we would've never had you."

Jake rolled his eyes and waited for Kyle to disappear through the kitchen door frame before he looked up at Stan. "Daddy's wrong," he said. "Charlie's brother says two daddies can't have a baby, so it doesn't matter if you're gross."

"Frankie's not wrong," Stan said as he turned toward the counter and his garlic chicken recipe. He knew they'd talk about where Jake came from, exactly, one day. Kyle had this whole speech worked out about love and family, and how Jake was a product of love. The biology didn't matter. He was _theirs_.

Stan wasn't as good with words as Kyle. This was important, though. He didn't want to screw it up.

"Daddy and I wanted you so much we had to borrow a mommy for a little while," Stan told him. "So you still should be glad we love each other, Jake. That's why we have you."

Jake was quiet for a while, tapping at his iPad while Stan chopped broccoli. 

"I'm glad you and Daddy love each other," Jake said after Stan put the chicken in the oven to bake. "I don't wanna be like Richie."

Stan glanced back at Jake, who was staring down at the table, eyebrows furrowed, frown etched deep into his face. "Like Richie?" Stan asked. 

"His dad lives near Disney World, which is cool, but Richie doesn't get to go see him except for two weeks at summer, which is so stupid," Jake explained. "If I could only see Daddy for two weeks at summer, I'd be so sad."

"That'll never happen, Jake," Stan promised.

He couldn't stop thinking about what Jake said while he peeled potatoes. Jake _thought_ about it, about Kyle just not being there, and that worried him. Stan knew people with divorced parents growing up, but he never thought about his parents breaking up until it happened the first time, when he was eight. He didn't recall much of it anymore, just vague, blurry memories, but he'd been shocked. Totally taken aback. He wanted Jake's biggest concern to be winning Pokemon games against Sam and Charlie or dealing with Theo Palmer's cookie-stealing, glitter-hogging ways.

The doorbell rang while Stan was frying up zucchini and trying to convince himself he wasn't a failure of a parent. Jake shot out of his chair and ran for the door, shouting up the stairs to Kyle that someone was there.

"There's my bro-in-law," Ike said as he came into the kitchen, holding up a six pack of Luck U, Kyle trailing in behind him. "Brought you some Colorado beer. It's gotta be better than whatever swill you've been drinking in D.C."

"Thanks," Stan said, gratefully taking a beer. "It's been Sam Adams for weeks. What's up?"

Ike started in on a story about his now ex-girlfriend, Rachel, who apparently kept facebook messaging him even though it was totally _over_ , which it totally wasn't. They'd broken up at least ten times in the last three years. Stan hadn't seen a relationship so volatile since Kenny and Wendy in high school. Kyle rolled his eyes behind Ike's back and Stan had to smother a laugh. They both knew better than to take sides, because by the time they were back next month, Ike and Rachel would be back together, happily prowling downtown Boulder for the next best gastropub.

"Anyway," Ike said after he finished his story. "How's the district? Last time Kyle called it was all, _Ike, why are you running the company into the ground_ and _Isaac, I'm going to kill you_."

"So our usual conversation," Kyle said as he popped the cap off a beer and settled down at the table. "Which we wouldn't have, by the way, if you actually did your job."

Ike scoffed and swigged his beer. "I do my job." He pointed his bottle at Kyle. "He's just pissed off that I won't let him look at internals anymore."

"Conflict of interest my ass," Kyle muttered. " _He_ just doesn't want me to see that he's bankrupting the place."

Stan looked between them and then pushed off the counter. "I'm going to check on Jake," he said as he skirted around Ike. He'd been a referee once already today; he didn't feel much like doing it again. Ike and Kyle weren't likely to punch each other, just yell at each other until they both got tired of it.

Stan found Jake sitting by the door, knees to his chest, humming to himself. He smiled up at Stan and held up a box. "Uncle Ike got me a new game for my DS!"

"Of course he did," Stan said, shaking his head. "Just for being cute?"

"Mmmhmm," Jake said, nodding. He turned the box over, inspecting it. "I'm waiting for Gramma and Grampa. Uncle Ike said they got me something awesome."

Stan laughed softly. "You are going to be spoiled rotten, child," he told him.

Jake grinned toothily up at him and stuck his tongue out. Stan rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, heading back for the kitchen, mostly to make sure Kyle and Ike hadn't resorted to throwing dishes at each other over whether or not Kyle should be allowed to look over the books. Stan didn't think there was an ethics problem, but Ike guarded Kyle's seat more voraciously than even Kyle did.

"--don't know if I'm running yet," he heard Kyle say quietly.

Stan paused next to the doorway, barely letting himself breathe. _That_ was new information.

"What?" Ike asked, alarmed. "Don't be stupid, of course you're running." 

Ike sounded as incredulous as Stan felt. Kyle hadn't said anything about not wanting a third term. He'd been in love with politics since he got elected student council vice president in seventh grade. He'd worked for campaigns, got himself appointed to the Greater Boulder Equality Commission, gotten elected to the school board when Kenny complained one too many times that he had to buy supplies for his classroom out of his own pocket. Kyle'd liked his old job just fine, but this was the thing he _loved_. 

"I'm not being stupid," Kyle said. "I'm being realistic."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ike told him. "You're great at this. Nobody's going to primary you. Carl would actually gut them."

Stan heard Kyle let out a huff. He could almost picture him sitting there, rubbing his temples, staring across the table at Ike like he was being an idiot. "It's not the politics. It's personal. Stan-- he. I've gotta think about my family first."

***

Monday was President's Day, which meant absolutely nothing to Stan except that Kenny didn't have to work. Sheila and Gerald had stayed the night so they could take Jake to the mall--probably to spoil him more--so as soon as they got out the door, Stan called Kenny and invited him over for video games. He wanted to shoot things, get out his frustration, and maybe, eventually, get drunk enough that he could forget what he heard the night before.

They'd been sitting on the couch playing Firefight, not really talking. Stan invited Kenny over to take his mind off of all the shit that was spinning up there, but instead he just kept thinking about it and Kenny was murdering him. He couldn't focus on shooting pixels when he felt like his life was falling apart.

"You know," Kenny said as he killed Stan for the fifth time in ten minutes, "you're kind of out of it today."

Stan paused the game and shot a baleful look across the space between them and flipped him off. His heart wasn't in it. Kenny was right. He _was_ out of it.

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"Yeah?" Kenny asked. "Like what? 

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't know if he should tell Kenny this--he wasn't even supposed to know it--but he was going crazy. There wasn't anyone else he could trust with this. He didn't even know how to broach the topic with Kyle. 

"I overheard Kyle talking to Ike last night," he admitted.

"Okay," Kenny said, head cocked, blonde hair falling into his face. "Is that unusual? I mean, they're brothers."

"He told Ike he doesn't want to run again."

Kenny dropped his controller and stared at Stan, slack-jawed. "What?"

"You heard me," Stan said. He looked away, back to the television. 

"What the fuck? Why?" Kenny sounded bewildered. "He's stoked on Congress. What happened?"

"Me, I guess," Stan admitted. He sketched out what he heard the night before in stilted, awkward sentences. It was embarrassing. He wasn't supposed to be this thing dragging Kyle down. He was supposed to be there to support him. They made sacrifices for each other, sure, but Kyle shouldn't feel like he had to sacrifice his dream job to make Stan happy. That wasn't right.

"So...." Kenny motioned for Stan to continue. "When you told him what you heard, what did he say?" he asked after Stan said nothing.

Stan tried out the wide-eyed, lips-parted innocent look that Jake pulled on him all the time. He didn't need a lecture. He just needed to bitch.

"You haven't told him you heard," Kenny said around a sigh. "Stan. You gotta _talk_ to him, you know."

"I don't know what to say! 'Oh, hey Kyle, I was eavesdropping on you and I heard you thought I was a pathetic, whimpering lump'-"

"Oh, shut your fucking mouth, Stan," Kenny interrupted, suddenly angry. "He doesn't think that and you damn well know it." He took a few deep breaths. "Are you guys having problems?"

Stan shook his head. "We're fine." 

At least, he hoped so, but then again, Kyle was talking about quitting his damn job because Stan couldn't keep his shit together. Which was kind of outrageous, actually, because that _wouldn't_ help Stan feel better. He'd choke on the guilt. Yeah, he didn't like the seventy hour weeks, but it wouldn't be much different if Kyle went back to private practice. The only thing that would change was that maybe Stan wouldn't feel like he was a tag-along on someone else's life, which wasn't Kyle's mess to clean up. That was on him.

"Stan?"

"We're fine," he repeated.


	5. Chapter 5

Stan's usual plan for Wednesdays in Boulder involved sleeping until noon, lazing around in his sweatpants, and maybe, if Jake finished his homework before it got dark, taking a walk around the park at the end of the block. Instead of that, his ideal Wednesday, he got stuck waking up at seven so he could wrangle his child into presentable clothes and meet his parents - both of them Jesus what did he do to deserve that? - for breakfast.

His mom called him last night on FaceTime while Kyle was sitting next to him on the couch, watching him with judgey eyes while he fumbled over lame excuses. Kyle didn't believe in lying to his parents which was all well and good for Kyle, because he didn't have Randy Marsh for a father.

This thing with Randy was a twenty year cold war. Neither of them were willing to pull the trigger, both of them suffering through seeing each other and trying to ignore the fucking giant elephant in the room. He'd made it pretty clear on several occasions that he was just fine with the Christmas and Easter schedule they had. Stan was about at his limit with Randy's shit, which he thought was a thing his mother understood, but apparently not.

So here he was, five hours before he wanted to drag his ass out of bed, willing his arms wake up a little quicker he could reach over and smack the damn alarm clock to make it stop screaming. Kyle was still a lump under the covers, awake; he wasn't making those tiny snuffling noises that made Stan's heart feel funny. Stan felt terrible for dragging him up an hour before he had to crawl out of bed.

"Wan' me t'come?" Kyle slurred, half awake, muffled by his pillow. He rolled onto his back, arm tossed across his face.

"No," Stan whispered, holding in a groan at the thought of it. As much as he loved Kyle, he would just make it worse. "Not gonna be fun times at Mimi's."

"I like Mimi's."

Kyle pawed clumsily at him as he scooted closer, tucked himself against Stan. Stan just wanted to lie there with Kyle's face hidden in the crook of his neck and their legs tangled together, both of them sleep-warm and boneless, but he had this pointless breakfast to go to. His mother would never forgive him if he bailed.

"I should've lied to my mom," Stan decided as he pushed the covers down.

"Don't lie to your mom. Bad karma." Kyle yawned, stretched one hand out to ghost over the nape of Stan's neck. "I'll be home around four today."

"So early," Stan teased. "What did you do to deserve all this time off?"

He forced himself up, knees popping in protest. Kyle was staring at him from behind droopy eyelids, a tiny smile on his face. He curled up into himself, arms around his pillow the same way he held Stan most nights, tight and close. Stan wanted to dive back under the covers, stuff his face in between the pillow and Kyle's chest, and just stay there forever, safe and kept, locked in Kyle's arms.

"Trade off for tomorrow," Kyle told him. "I'm speaking at that dinner. I like you in a tux." He closed his eyes and yawned softly. "Been thinking about it all week."

"Go back to sleep, honey," Stan told him. He bent and pressed a kiss against Kyle's temple. "You're still dreaming."

The house was quiet while he shaved and brushed his teeth. He thought about his day: breakfast with his parents, a quick trip to the grocery store. Sharon was taking Jake for the day, fulfilling a months-old promise to take him to the Children's museum.

He had to pick up the dry cleaning at Craig and Bebe's atrocious little shop, which meant small talk with Bebe, who would proceed to tell him every tiny detail of South Park gossip like it was something that mattered. Maybe she'd have the dirt on why Butters came back from Spain. He cared in a vague sort of way, like he wondered sometimes what happened to Mr. Garrison after he moved to Oregon.

Then he'd come home and curl up with a book, waiting on the rest of his little family. Eventually they'd eat dinner, Kyle would open up a bottle of wine and drink half of it. Jake would give them trouble at bedtime, of course, too keyed up from a day with his Nana to sleep.

Eventually Stan would end up back in his bed. If the universe was kind to him, Kyle would be all over him, whimpering out in that needy, breathless whisper how much he needed Stan inside of him, please, now, forever.

If he could just make it through the morning, the day might not be a total loss.

*

Jake needed a fucking leash, Stan decided as he tore through the parking lot towards his grandma, ignoring Stan's shouts to slow down and look both ways. The kid was going to give him a heart attack one of these days.

Sharon tugged him out of the traffic lane, onto the sidewalk, and of course he listened to her when she told him to calm down and not be the cause of everyone's premature demise. He just gave her his best smile, said 'yes, nana', and squeezed her leg.

"I had him get a table," Sharon said when Stan stepped up onto the sidewalk, still clutching his chest from Jake's terror-inducing sprint across the parking lot. "I just wanted to make sure you were going to--" she looked up at him, worried. "I don't want you two to fight."

"I said I was going to try," Stan told her. "I don't understand why you're making me do this, but I'm not going to start shit."

Mimi's was loud and crowded, full of hungover undergrads still in their pajamas looking for a grease fix, the kind of people who were too busy with their own drama to eavesdrop on someone else's. That's why he picked Mimi's. The noise was an added bonus. Raised voices were necessary. The conversation was bound to veer into some territory that would piss off one of them, and then there'd be shouting, and one or both of them would stomp off.

They weaved through the cluttered mess of mismatched tables stuffed too close together until Stan spotted Randy waving them over in the back corner. Stan waved back, even though every cell in his body wanted nothing more than to bolt. It was too late to back out now. No amount of pleading looks tossed his mom's way would get him out of this.

"Hey, buddy," Randy said when they made it to the booth he'd camped out in.

He stood up and opened his arms, offering Stan a hug that he ducked by leaning down and giving Jake a gentle little shove toward his Pappie. He mustered a polite hello as he slid into a seat as far away from the one his dad vacated as geography would allow while Randy made much of Jake.

Age wasn't wearing well on Randy. Stan never really took the time to look at him, but he could see it now that he was: he'd gained more weight since Christmas. Stooping to give Jake a hug looked like it was real work for him. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and there wasn't any black left in his old man's thinning hair. Stan kind of hoped he wasn't looking at himself in thirty-five years. He wasn't banking on being forever young, but Randy looked ancient, like he was pushing ninety rather than just barely seventy.

"Hey, you lost a tooth," Randy said, crouching down to examine the spot where Jake's front tooth had been at Christmas. "Did the tooth fairy leave you any loot?"

A skeptical look crossed Jake's face. "The tooth fairy's made up," he said. "Daddy says so. But Dad gave me five whole dollars!"

"No tooth fairy either?" Randy asked, glancing up at Stan with a look of pure betrayal, like Stan had somehow wronged him.

"No," Stan said around a sigh. He slumped back in his seat and stared at the closed menu in front of him. This again.

"No Santa Claus, no tooth fairy. What about the Easter Bunny?"

"Made up. Daddy says so." He patted Randy's leg consolingly, then scrambled up into the booth next to Stan. "Sorry, Pappie."

"You're taking the magic out of childhood," Randy said as he settled back down in the booth. "You liked that stuff when you were little."

Stan flipped the menu open with a halfhearted flick of his wrist. "Kyle doesn't like lying to him," he said. "And I've told you a thousand times, Dad, we don't do Christian holidays at home. It's not like there's a Hanukkah Owl or something."

"Daddy says Passover is way cooler than Easter," Jake chimed in.

Stan barely suppressed the urge to slam his head down on the table. Repeatedly. Randy's fucked-up affinity for Easter bordered on fetishism, coming out loud and proud as soon as spring hit. This was just more ammo against poor Kyle, who never did anything to Randy except exist.

Apparently Stan hadn't hammered home the idea that Jake shouldn't repeat Kyle's opinions in front of people enough times. They were going to go over that, _and_ running through parking lots, again. Multiple times, if that's what it took.

"Why are you telling him stuff like that?" Randy asked. Stan knew that tone pretty well: total offense bordering on a tantrum. It was too early to deal for this shit.

"I didn't tell him anything," Stan said. He wasn't even lying. Religious education was Kyle's job. Stan answered questions when Jake asked them, but his main concerns with Catholicism were which days his Nana and Pappie were supposed to give him candy and presents.

"He just said--"

"He's talking about Kyle," Stan cut in.

"Well, why do you let _him_ tell Jake things like that?"

"Because I have no control over Kyle's opinions?" Stan suggested. He didn't know what answer Randy was expecting. "He's a full-grown man who's allowed to think whatever he wants."

"No, you just let _him_ disrespect your heritage in front of your kid. Real nice, Stanley."

Stan threw his hands up. "I'm not getting into a holiday dick-measuring contest with you right now, Dad. Kyle and I are raising _our_ kid the way we want to. Nose out of it, for fuck's sake!"

...which was absolutely not supposed to come out of his mouth.

Jake's crayon clattered to the table. He blinked owlishly up at Stan, mouth in a tiny, surprised 'O'. Sharon was glaring lightning bolts at him from across the booth, arms crossed over her chest, disappointment written in angry strokes across her face. He hid his face behind his hands with a groan and wished for a Bloody Mary or possibly a half-dozen mimosas. Less than five minutes of civil conversation had to be a new record, even for Stan and Randy.

He peered between his fingers at his dad, gape-mouthed and sputtering, and his mom, who was shaking her head, staring down at the menu. He felt awful about the whole thing. He never meant to start a fight with his dad, it just sort of _happened_ , a result of whatever this thing between them was.

Something kind of snapped, somewhere in the back of his head. He was so tired of trying to please everyone.

“No,” he said quietly. “I can't do this.”

Sharon looked up sharply at him. “What, honey?”

“I'm gonna go,” he said. He fished his wallet out of his pocket and dropped a fifty on the table. “I'm sorry, I just. I'm not doing this. Jake, let me out.”

Jake hopped out of the booth and stared up at Stan, biting his lip. “But I was a'posta go to the museum with Nana,” he wobbled out.

“I'll still take you, honey,” Sharon said while Stan slid his jacket on. “Stanley--”

“Call me before you bring him home, okay?” Stan asked. “I've got some errands to run. I'll see you later.”

Randy was glaring down into his water, knuckles white around the glass. He didn't say anything while Stan fumbled for his keys and kissed Jake goodbye on the top of his head.

He turned on his heel and made for the exit before she could say anything else. He pushed open the door, stepped back on the sidewalk outside of Mimi's, and took in a deep breath. He actually felt a little relief.

When he got into his Leaf and pulled out of the parking lot, he considered going to Whole Foods and getting his errands done early, but he changed his mind and took a right onto Walnut, instead. It was just after nine, a full hour before he expected to finish up at Mimi's, and maybe still early enough to catch Kyle before he started his Wednesday shuffle of special interest groups who managed to crowbar their way into a meeting.

Kyle's office in Boulder was bigger than the one in Washington, but less impressive. It was a suite on the second floor of a squat, brick building, above a vegan restaurant that neither of them had ever been to. The kids that worked in there were nice enough; Stan ran into them once in a while in the parking lot. They liked Kyle just fine and only grumbled a little about having the literal establishment rent the space above them.

He parked next to Kyle's Lexus in the lot behind building and sprinted toward the back door. When pulled open the door, he almost slammed right into Kyle, who had his arm up to push the bar and startled so bad he dropped his phone.

“Hi,” Kyle said, stepping back, eyebrows raised. “What're you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at Mimi's?”

“Are you leaving?” Stan stooped down and plucked the phone up.

“Going to Starbucks,” he said. He frowned at the dent in the corner of his phone but let Stan clip it back onto his belt without complaint. “I have this meeting with People for the Preservation of Colorado History and I am too tired for that shit.”

Stan made a face. “That sounds painful.”

“It _is_. This is the third time they've wasted thirty minutes of my life in the last year.” Kyle gently pushed Stan out of the doorway and let the door clang shut behind them. “What happened to Mimi's? Where's Jake?”

“With Mom,” Stan answered. “Can I go with you to get coffee? It's a long story.”

“Like I was going to let you leave with that look on your face. C'mon.”

Kyle started across the parking lot toward the Starbucks that convinced him to take the office in the first place. He ran on caffeine and sheer will most of the time and his staff was just as bad, if not worse, especially when he was in town. 

Stan caught one of Kyle's hands in his own and squeezed. “So I went, you know, like a good son. Because I am a good son.”

“Uh huh.” Kyle shot him a skeptical look. “And yet you're here, twenty minutes after you were supposed to meet your mother.”

He sketched out the disaster that was breakfast, pausing long enough to order himself an americano and be polite to the baristas. Kyle waited until they were back in the parking lot, clear of the hustle and bustle inside, to speak.

“So you walked out.”

“I did,” Stan confirmed. “It felt incredibly good.”

Kyle sighed and took a sip of his coffee. He looked thoughtful while they crossed the lot. “I didn't want to be the reason,” he said after a while. “I feel guilty.”

“You aren't, he is. He brought this on to himself.” Stan grabbed Kyle's free hand again. “I've been trying to make everybody else happy for a long time. I don't want to see him. I don't care if Jake visits him, or whatever. I'm not going to keep him away from his grandfather. I'm just done, personally.”

“Okay,” Kyle agreed.

They'd made it back to the door. A half-dozen middle aged men in polo shirts and matching baseball caps were unloading a bunch of poster boards from the back of a van stamped with 'PPCH' in cheap, peeling paint.

Kyle let out a tiny, nearly inaudible sigh. “My nine-thirty,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Just in time.”

Stan chuckled softly and stooped down, kissing him soundly. “Have a good day,” he told him.

“You, too.” Kyle smoothed his hands over Stan's shoulders.

“There's a strong probability that I'm going to take a nap,” Stan told him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Don't sleep all day.” Kyle kissed him again.

Stan didn't miss the awful look one of the guys was tossing their way when he pulled away. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep his tongue in check. He got back in his car instead and waited patiently until the door closed behind the lot of them to raise his middle finger.

*

He slept longer than he wanted to. By the time he woke up, it was already three. He had five voicemails and a handful of texts from his dad that he ignored with a couple swipes of his finger. He didn't want to delete them exactly. He'd let Randy have his say before he let whatever was left of their relationship fizzle out. If Stan got into a pissing match over who got the last word, they'd be at it until one of them died.

Sharon had shot him a text half an hour ago, promising to have Jake home by five, in time for dinner. That gave him a little while to at least get the dry cleaning from Bebe and Craig. He did a mental inventory of the cupboards while he got dressed; they'd be okay on food. He could put that off.

Bebe and Craig had a little tailor shop on Vine, in the middle of a little strip of hip restaurants and a couple local clothiers. It wasn't the impressive high-end boutique that Bebe dreamed of in high school, but she was happy with tailoring and the occasional custom order dress. Craig was a disgruntled business partner. He kept the books, but mostly complained that Bebe could do better than being some local go-to for salesmen who needed their cheap suits altered.

On the drive there, Stan pondered how none of them ended up where they imagined they'd be when they were kids. Cartman thought he'd run the world; Bebe thought she'd be the next Coco Chanel. Stan certainly never imagined this life for himself, not in a million years.

Craig and Bebe's shop smelled overwhelmingly like lemons and cinnamon, so thick in the air that Stan choked a little when he pushed open the door. He didn't understand how they managed to keep clients with the place smelling like that and worried fleetingly that Kyle's tux for the dinner tomorrow night was going to smell like pine sol and cheap incense.

"Stan!" Bebe was on him as soon as she noticed it was him, clutching his neck, kissing his cheek. "Craig said Kyle dropped some pieces off on Friday, I was so pissed I missed you guys!"

"Hey," he said, pulling away and scrubbing at the greasy mark her lip gloss left on his skin. "Yeah, we're home for the week."

She held him at arm's length, looking him over. “How are you? Is Washington still treating you awfully? Does Kyle's ass still look spectacular in a suit?”

Stan let out a half-choked laugh. “Good, and yes, and _yes_. It's been like three months. Not that much has changed.” Certainly not the state of Kyle's ass, which had been the common ground that forged Stan and Bebe's friendship in middle school, long before Kyle grabbed Stan by the ears and kissed him after a particularly grueling round of Mortal Kombat.

“Oh, it has been, hasn't it?” She tutted. “I'm an awful friend. At least I live secure in knowing Craig will always be worse than I am.”

“Where is he?”

She motioned towards the back room with a flick of her wrist. “Puttering, muttering, all those Craigy things he does. His doctor put him on Zoloft, it's worked wonders. Did you hear about Butters?”

“Sort of.”

She grabbed Stan by the elbow and dragged him over to the back room door. He stumbled through behind her, found himself getting pushed down into one of the ugly wicker chairs by the window in the office, presented with a glass of iced tea that materialized from seemingly nowhere.

Craig looked up from his computer at the commotion, slid one earbud out of his ear, and rolled his eyes at Bebe. “You aren't supposed to assault the customers,” he told her.

“It's Stan, he doesn't care.” She perched in the chair next to Stan and blew Craig a little kiss. "Go back to Wikipedia, darling; I've got to tell Stan about little Butters."

Craig rolled his eyes upward and stared at the ceiling, shaking his head. "Oh, joy," he said as he stuffed the earbud back into his ear.

"I thought you said the Zoloft was doing wonders?" Stan asked her quietly.

"It is," she said. "That's just Craig. It isn't a personality transplant, Stan. Anyway, Butters." She squirmed in her chair, sat up straight, and puffed out her chest, like this was going to be a really great story. Stan had doubts.

"I was up in South Park to visit my mother. We had dinner at Bennigans and there was Butters, all suntanned, chomping on jalapeno poppers with Eric fucking Cartman, and I said to myself, self, this isn't right. Butters is supposed to be in Valencia, doing whatever-the-fuck a vintner does."

"Make wine," Stan supplied. "What, did he get fired?"

"No, Stephen's not well. They think alzheimer's." She let out a little sigh. "Speaking of fathers, I heard rumors your own isn't doing too hot."

Stan shrugged. "I don't know. I saw him for, like, five minutes today. He gained weight. I think he's going bald." Stan reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, the sort of greasy weight of it reassuring. "Why? What did you hear?"

"Oh, Mom mentioned Jimbo said something about his liver at Bingo." She frowned. "You didn't know?"

"He doesn't tell me anything. We were in the same room for five minutes and we got into a shouting match. You know how it is." He took a gulp of his tea. "I'm not shocked. Fifty years of alcoholism has to do some damage."

"I suppose so. No improvements on the Randy front, then?"

He studied the ice floating in his glass for a moment, trying to sort his thoughts into a way that would leave the least room for gossip. It was no good. "I think I'm done."

"Finally," she said. "Watching that fucking waltz from hell was a decades-long nightmare. I've been rooting for you to go full McCormick for years."

Stan shrugged. "He's my dad."

"Yes, and what an accomplishment it is to be able to produce viable sperm." She sipped her tea thoughtfully, bright orange nails tapping an uneven rhythm on the glass. "You'll feel better."

"I already do." He felt a little guilty, maybe, though more that he dragged everyone through a mess that should have been cleaned up years ago. "I just don't have room in my head for that fucked-up mess right now."

Her expression transformed into hawkish curiosity. Stan used to be afraid of that look. Bebe was a gossip, always had been, but she was his friend, too. She kept his biggest secret in middle school, never spoke a word about Stan's confused feelings for Kyle. He knew he could trust her with this, too.

"Stan, you can tell me," she said. 

So he did, the whole sorry mess, from how much he hated Washington to how Kyle was exhausting himself trying to be two places at once; his own feelings, of course; that suffocating weight on his chest that made everything ten times harder; the breakdown in Kyle's office and his subsequent banishment to therapy, because something clearly wasn't right inside of him. He stopped before he started blubbering all over Bebe's awful wicker chair. Craig was very pointedly not looking at them, that fucking eavesdropper, which he would have pointed out if Bebe didn't envelope him in a hug, whispering reassurances into his ear.

A little while later he left, lugging his and Kyle's bagged tuxedos over his shoulder. He felt better, like more of the weight that was pressing down on his chest was let up. Keeping it all bottled up inside him was poisoning him. 

He'd stayed later at Bebe's than he planned. There was a blizzard warning, some storm coming off the mountains, and it seemed like the entirety of Boulder was out and about, clogging the roads in a last minute push to get shit done before the snow started. He kept checking the clock on his dashboard, tapping the steering wheel along to the radio. 

It was after four. Kyle was probably home, wondering what the hell was taking him so long. Coming home to someone was going to be strange, like the past echoing forward. He missed the days when Kyle was still in law school and was almost always home waiting for him, buried under stacks of books.

He could smell fire when he opened the front door. He was alarmed for a second, before he heard Kyle muttering to himself in the living room. A string of curse words, almost inaudible, but not distressed. He hadn't managed to set the house on fire, then.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked when he turned the corner into the living room.

Kyle looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the stonework in the middle of what looked like the contents of his briefcase, scattered in haphazard stacks, teetering dangerously close to the edge of the fireplace. Stan had nightmares about house fires sometimes. Kindling spread across the floor, making a neat path from the carpet to the fireplace set his nerves on edge.

"Reading Cartman's thing," Kyle answered. "Also burning it, when the urge takes me."

"Burning it," Stan repeated skeptically.

Kyle nodded and tossed a page into the fire, as if to prove his point. "It's like a game. I read until I reach something like..." Kyle frowned down at the page in front of him. " _I wouldn't expect a kike born with a silver spoon in his mouth to understand the plight of the working man_. Perfect." He crushed the page into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace. "And then the urge takes me, and I burn it for warmth. He's lost his edge."

"Seriously, he wrote that?"

Kyle shrugged. "It's Cartman. If you want to help, you can update the tally."

He motioned to the legal pad next to him. The top sheet was sectioned off into thirds, with uneven tally marks in neat little rows under headings-- _judaism, homosexuality,_ and _personal appearance_. Stan frowned down at it. Cartman always had this unique ability to turn Kyle into a quivering pile of rage. He couldn't help but feel thrown at Kyle making a game out of it instead of punching holes in the walls, which was what he fully expected to happen if Kyle ever got around to reading Cartman's thing. He'd even stocked up the band-aids and ibuprofen just in case.

He didn't think it was any kind of funny that Cartman apparently insulted him nearing a hundred times already, if Kyle's tally marks were accurate.

"He called you gay thirty times, in, what?" There was still at least half of Cartman's rant littered across the floor. "Fifty pages?"

"Forty-one, but no." Kyle shook his head. "He's gotten pretty colorful."

"Like?"

"Oh, I'll have to find another one." Kyle shuffled through a few sheets to his left, closest to the fire. "There was a particularly stunning turn of phrase involving olive oil and your dick that I almost didn't burn, but he went off the rails towards the end. Too bad, too."

Cartman's long-standing fascination with their sex life always made Stan wonder if he was jealous, but he was persistently heterosexual in the most obnoxious, creepy ways imaginable, up to and including sexually harassing the waitresses at Denny's. The way he always dogged on Kyle, though, his creepy attempts to possess him--sometimes literally--when they were kids always left a bad taste in Stan's mouth.

"Oh, here." Kyle laughed softly, under his breath. "Listen: _I know you can't resist the siren call of Marsh's dick for more than twenty seconds, but if you could maybe worry about the will of the people instead of when the next time your hole is going to get filled, the country wouldn't be teetering on the edge of disaster_. He's giving me an awful lot of credit. I, personally, am ruining America." He crumpled it up and tossed it between his hands, shaking his head.

"You're still reading that?" Stan didn't know how he'd made it through forty pages. He'd only heard two passages and that was enough to tempt him into driving up to South Park and breaking all ten of Cartman's fingers, one by one. 

"I'm preparing counterpoints."

"There's counterpoints?"

Kyle nodded. "Absolutely. For instance, there's video evidence of my birth, and it didn't involve any sort of spoon."

Stan settled into the armchair closest to the fireplace. "I thought you weren't taking his meeting?" He didn't want Kyle to take the meeting. He didn't want Cartman in the same time zone as Kyle, not when he was amped up to full psycho. In middle school it was all fist fights and broken knee caps. Stan didn't want to imagine what it would be now, when Cartman was easily two of Kyle, three inches taller, and probably stockpiled guns in Liane's basement.

"I'm not cancelling something for him, no, but I suspect he's going to show up tomorrow anyway," Kyle told him, shaking his head at whatever he was reading. Two more lines in the personal appearance section, and then that sheet found its way into the fire, too. "I feel bad for him."

"Why?" Stan asked, honestly perturbed. If Stan felt bad for anyone, it was Liane or the poor waitresses on the night shift at the Denny's. Anyone who had to put up with him for extended periods of time.

"This is his life. Hoping to get a rise out of me. He worked hard on this," Kyle said, waving his hand over the pile of paper in front of him. "Like, really hard. I can tell. This isn't some stream of consciousness crazy rant. He crafted this, like it was a masterpiece."

"So he's an artisan asshole," Stan agreed. "He's been pushing your buttons for our entire lives, Kyle."

Kyle tucked his pen up over his ear and watched Stan's face for a while. "Yeah. I think this is all he has, you know? I'm the Saruman to his Gandalf, at least in his head."

"Weren't you Elrond or something? I can't remember."

A smile flittered across Kyle's face. "Please, the minute you started acting all Aragorn I went full Arwen. But that isn't what I'm talking about." Kyle paused, thoughtful. "Maybe the Q to his Picard is a better metaphor."

"We never did that one."

"I'm not talking about LARPing when we were kids, dude." Kyle tossed a balled up sheet of paper at him, which Stan caught deftly and tossed back. It hit him square in the chest and landed in his lap, forgotten. "I'm talking about right now, in Cartman's head. He thinks I'm some big evil thing that he personally needs to overcome."

"So he's a lunatic."

"He's the protagonist in his own little fantasy," Kyle countered. "That's only human."

"You, sympathizing with Cartman. Never thought I'd see the day."

Kyle laughed again. "I have better enemies now. I levelled up."

"I just didn't ever think I'd see the day when you'd turn a homophobic, racist manifesto into a game, that's all."

"It's not like this is my first rodeo," Kyle said. "I don't just get hate mail hand-delivered by fat fucks with personal grudges. I've gotten worse."

Stan blinked. That was the first he'd heard of it. "Wait, you're getting hate mail?"

"I'm in Congress. Polio has a higher approval rating. Of course I get hate mail." Kyle tossed another sheet into the fireplace.

"Why haven't you told me before now?"

"I don't know, it's not important? I don't care if random strangers hate me. Shannon only shows them to me when they're outrageous enough that the interns think it's funny."

"It isn't funny," Stan told him. A thought occurred to him then, one of those truly horrifying nightmare scenarios that he tried hard not to think about. "Are you getting death threats?"

Kyle colored, high on his cheeks, and Stan found it hard to breathe around the sudden panic rising in his chest.

"You're getting _death threats_ and you didn't tell me?"

"Oh, come on." Kyle looked away, into the fireplace. "It's not a big deal," he mumbled.

"Yeah, it really is." How could Kyle just shrug that off? Some anonymous psychopath trying to kill him was pretty much at the top of Stan's list of potential horrors, right up there with house fires that trapped Jake in his bedroom or plane crashes that killed them all. "If you didn't think it was a big deal you wouldn't have kept it a secret. What if someone tries something?"

"We report them all. Detective White says there's nothing to worry about, it's just angry people blowing off steam. Calm down."

"I'm really not going to _calm down_ about this. When did it start?" he demanded, because it didn't start this morning, and that was the only way Kyle not telling him would be okay.

Kyle looked up at him over the top of his glasses. "Which thing, the hate mail or the death threats?"

"Either! Both!" Stan was gripping the arms of the chair so hard his fingers were tingling, knuckles white. "I walk Jake to school every day, Kyle, what if someone tried to hurt him?"

"Nobody's threatened Jake. Or you, for that matter." Kyle pushed the papers off his lap and shuffled over to the armchair on his knees. He pried Stan's fingers one by one from the arm of the chair. "I'd've told you if it was serious. I didn't want you to get all anxious about nothing."

"You don't get to decide what I worry about!" Stan said furiously. He was shaking so bad he thought his whole body might come apart. "Don't just sit there all calm and act like it isn't a big deal. It is to me!"

"Stanley--"

"Don't even try to. Justify that." His head felt all foggy, too full of furious panic for thoughts to fully form, other than the one thought, the idea of some faceless, nameless person sitting in the dark, furiously scratching out death threats.

"This is exactly why I didn't tell you," Kyle said in that tone he used on Jake when Jake was being unreasonable. It just made Stan angrier. Being upset about this was perfectly rational.

"No it isn't, because if you just fucking told me, I wouldn't be this angry!"

"Yes, it is. You would have acted exactly like this if I told you the first time it happened, because you get all pissy when you can't protect me from something." Kyle crossed his arms and stared up at him, daring him with his eyes to refute that, which Stan really couldn't. He did want to protect Kyle from everything, especially something like this.

"What, Cartman's fucking reasonable for slurring at you but I'm unhinged for wanting to keep you safe? Fuck you for that."

Kyle sprung up to his feet, hands balled into fists at his sides. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he said, voice flat. "I'm going to make dinner. You're going to calm the fuck down. Then we're going to talk about this without shouting at each other."

He took off into the kitchen and left Stan behind, sitting in the armchair, reeling, just listening to Kyle slam cupboards closed. He slumped back in the chair and stared down at the papers littering the floor, upturned stacks of Cartman’s insane ramblings. Maybe it was too much to expect a politician–even Kyle–to be honest.

If the cops thought it was serious, they would've given Kyle protection. He'd seen it a few times before, uniformed guys standing outside offices while he weaved his way through Cannon on the way to Kyle's office. Kyle never bothered to even lock his door, which was probably monumentally stupid, now that Stan thought about it, and they were going to have a talk about that as soon as Stan could breathe without wanting to break something.

He got up and straightened the stacks of paper, clearing the space in front of the fireplace. He thought about putting the fire out for a while, just standing there toeing the carpet and staring blankly into the flames. Today sucked, he decided. The entire day was a waste. He just wanted to rewind back to this morning, when he was curled up with Kyle in a nest of warm blankets and say fuck it to the whole concept of _Wednesday_.

But life didn't come with a reset button. Sharon promised to have Jake home by five. Kyle was still slamming things around in the kitchen, which meant Stan had fifteen minutes to fix this. He hated it when they fought but he felt exponentially worse when Jake was a witness. Stan had plenty of bad memories of his mom and dad having it out in front of him. He didn't want that to be a legacy he carried on.

"I'm sorry," Stan said a whole five minutes later, metaphorical hat in hand in the kitchen doorway.

"I know," Kyle answered from where he was stirring something in a pot. It smelled good, like that beef stew Sheila used to make when Kyle felt like crap. "You're still all keyed up from fucking Randy. I didn't help." He let go of the spoon and turned to face Stan. "I'm sorry, too."

"I know," Stan echoed. "You _should_ have told me."

A sad smile touched the corner of Kyle's mouth. "I really thought I was doing the right thing."

"Don't hide stuff like that from me. It's worse when I find out like this," Stan told him. "Let me decide what I'm going to worry about."

Kyle's eyebrows jumped up toward his hairline. "Okay," he agreed.

He turned back to the stove like that was that. Stan crossed the space between them, propped himself up against the counter. They weren't done. He wanted Kyle to look at him.

"What, Stan?" Kyle asked. He didn't sound angry anymore, which Stan hoped was a victory.

He took a deep breath. "When did it start?" he asked again, this time trying not to sound quite so shrill and alarmed.

Kyle let out a huff of air and looked up at him. "Does it really matter?" he asked.

"Not--" Stan paused to consider his words. Kyle had mellowed with age, had to, for the job, but he sometimes still blew his top at the drop of a hat. "I just want to know."

"I can't imagine why. _I'd_ rather not know."

Stan cocked his head to the side and watched him for a while, letting that tumble around inside his head. "If someone were threatening me, what would you want?"

"I'd want people who could stop it to do something about it." Kyle's stirring faltered. He stared down hard into the pot. "If they were credible, if there were any reason to believe you could be hurt, yeah, I'd want to know," he admitted.

"So these aren't credible?"

Kyle shook his head. "Looney Toons people, sure. Total bigots, absolutely. Credible threats? I don't know. Brian White, he's my case detective at the CP, he says they're just people letting off steam. The FBI deals with the letters. They don't seem too worried."

Stan plucked Kyle's hand off the spoon and squeezed his fingers. "Well, you and I don't see the world the same all the time," he reminded him. "You tell me all the petty shit. You tell me what Shannon ate for lunch, but you didn't tell me you were getting threats? You have to understand how that looks to me."

Kyle sighed and squeezed Stan's hand once, hard, before he freed himself to go back to cooking. "You're right," he said.

Silence settled over them, just the faint sound of the water gurgling away in the pot on the stove; Kyle didn't seem to have anything else to say--an oddity that made Stan feel awkward and uneasy. He listened to the stilted, uneven sound of Kyle chopping away at some carrots, watched his expression shift into total frustration.

He'd never really gotten the hang of cooking. They lived on take out and meal plans all through college and then later, he was always so busy with work and his infinite number of obligations that there wasn't time. Stan always felt a weird rush of affection when Kyle did shit like this, especially now; he wasn't doing it for himself, even though he'd been pissed as hell when he stomped off.

"I don't understand," Stan said, breaking the silence. Kyle never left things at _you're right_ , there was always a but or however or something.

"What, why we don't have frozen fucking carrots in this house somewhere?" Kyle tossed the knife into the sink and dumped the carrots into the pot, giving it one hard stir that sent broth cascading over the side. He swore again under his breath.

"No," Stan said around a laugh. "I didn't know you were planning on attempting to cook."

"I wasn't," Kyle threw another glare at the pot. "I just needed something to do."

Stan was meaning to talk to him about that. Suddenly Kyle had all this free time that he never had before. It seemed like he was building his schedule around Stan, which he appreciated, definitely, but it made him feel strange, too. He loved spending time with Kyle, loved that he made it home before Jake went to sleep every night now, but Stan didn't need to be babied. Kyle didn't need to make time where there wasn't any.

That was going to have to wait, though. Just like the other conversation he was putting off about what he overheard on Sunday night.

"During the campaign," Kyle said abruptly. "Thats when it started."

"What?"

"The threats," Kyle said. "You said you wanted to know."

"That long ago?"

He nodded.

"What kind of person mails threats to a stranger?"

Kyle shrugged. "Horrible people," he suggested. "Homophobes, antisemites, people who think I want to raise their taxes. Once, this seventy year old woman who was angry my Congressional holiday card didn't have a Christmas tree on it." He glanced over at Stan. "She offered the FBI lemonade when they showed up at her front door."

"You're getting threatened by retirees?" The situation wasn't funny, but the mental image of some grandmother penning hate mail to anyone was startling enough to make him choke on a laugh.

"Only me, right?" Kyle picked up the pepper mill, weighed it in his hand for a while, and then looked back up at Stan. "I'm really sorry," he said.

"I know," Stan said. The doorbell rang. He pried the peppermill out of Kyle's hand. "That's Mom and Jake."

Kyle turned to go to the door but stopped short and backtracked. 

"What?" Stan asked.

Kyle shook his head and leaned up, pressed a kiss to Stan's lips, and then spun on his heel again. Stan heard Jake's voice, high and excited, and he smiled while he stirred the stew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long this took. Feedback is appreciated!


	6. Interlude: Meanwhile, On The Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular programming will resume after the interlude.

Kyle was running late, which was entirely his fault. He didn't care. The awkward half-jog to the Hill with his briefcase bumping against his leg was totally worth the morning, spent mawing down eggs and toast with his two favorite people and then walking Jake to school with Stan. He didn't get to do that a lot. If it meant his schedule was totally screwed for the better part of the morning, so be it. Some things were more important than the assistant secretary for fish and wildlife, or whatever Shannon let slip onto his schedule at nine in the morning.

He felt a little guilty when he pushed open the office door. Stan made him promise to start locking it before they even got back to DC Sunday night, and now here it was, already Thursday, and he hadn't even mentioned it to anyone. 

"Staff's in twenty minutes, then Sarah Fisher wants to talk about getting her name on 44. You have her for ten minutes after staff." Shannon didn't even look up from where she was hunched over the front of Lisa's desk, reading upside down. She was a woman of many talents.

"Lovely." He shrugged off his coat and made a beeline for his office door. He needed a few minutes to collect himself. His head wasn't on straight. He shifted gears when he got to work, away from the version of Kyle who kissed his kid's scraped knees and into someone harder, impossible to please. That took a minute.

He apparently forsook his alone time, though, when he took too long with the eggs and the family, because Shannon was hot on his heels with her planner open. He checked his watch. Eight thirty was pushing it, he supposed. Sometimes he missed his old nine-to-seven grind. There was something appealing about eating dinner when it was still fresh, not microwaved until it was boiling hot and limp. Or not feeling rushed when he was seeing his kid off to school. Things like that.

He tossed his briefcase down next to his desk and dropped into his chair, boneless and exhausted. Sleeping was the bottom of his priority list right now. There were at least seven things above it, including the two most important things: keeping Stan happy and making sure Jake remembered that he existed. Last night he fell asleep awfully late, after a particularly satisfying go around with Stan. They were both tired in the morning but at least Stan could look forward to a nap.

Kyle knew his schedule was stuffed when he pushed Stan down against the mattress at midnight. He could deal with the exhaustion. It was worth it.

"You're in la-la land," Shannon said. She took the seat in front of his desk and slid her pen out of the spiral in her planner. "Good night?"

Kyle couldn't stop the floaty smile on his face. "Yeah." 

It was always good. He could write an epic poem about how good Stan was. It would rival Beowulf in epicness, but dumping the nitty gritty on Shannon always just seemed wrong somehow. Maybe it was the perpetual scowl or her no-nonsense attitude or how he knew next to nothing about _her_ personal life. She brought Greg with her to poker nights sometimes, when they were in Colorado, but they were both the buttoned up sort. 

He realized a minute too late that he zoned out completely. She'd stopped talking, was just staring at him, impatient frown set on her lips. 

"Did you say something?" he asked, even though he knew perfectly well she probably read half of his schedule while he was thinking.

"A lot of things. You have a very full day, you know." She tapped the pen against her planner and frowned. "You've got press this afternoon. Are you going to be okay for it?"

"I'm tired, not dying," he said. "I'll be fine. What's the morning? You said something about Fisher?"

She nodded. "Fisher, then Witz at nine-thirty, then that guy from Americans For Better Health at ten, what's his name?"

"Oh God, not that Ratzinger douchebag again." He slumped forward and dropped his head to the desk with a groan. "I might be too tired for that."

"Nice try, darlin'. He's just going to reschedule. We gave him fifteen minutes. He says he has a pitch."

Kyle yanked on a curl. "What he _has_ is a very nice vacation home near Disney World that he'd love to let my family use, but of course he'll need a favor first, like dropping the single-payer provision from the Medicare package I've been pouring my heart into for two years. I won't be bought by Mickey fucking Mouse." He closed his eyes. He could take a nap, probably, right here against his desk. He had fifteen minutes until staff.

"Hey, those resorts aren't cheap."

He peeked up to make sure she was kidding. There was a hint of a smile there, hiding on her face. "My kid doesn't care about Disney. We went last year, over the summer. He wasn't impressed. He liked Splash Mountain, though."

She actually laughed, one of those deep chuckles that Kyle had to work to pull out of her. "That's how you know he's yours," she said. "Hard to please."

There was a joke in there, one about how easy he was to please, how all it took was Stan's lips on the tip of his dick and he was pleased as a goddamned plum, but he bit his tongue. Not at work, he reminded himself. 

"Seriously, do I have to hang out with a lobbyist for fifteen minutes?" He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I'm tired. I can't be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth."

"Seriously," she said, "you do. I fully expect you to accuse him of trying to bribe you, _again_. I don't know why they keep sending him. Maybe you'll shout and he'll finally get the picture."

"Maybe he's secretly a masochist, just waiting for me to snap. He _is_ actually trying to bribe me, you realize."

"I do. I'm thrilled you keep telling him no."

Kyle ran his fingers over the picture of him and Stan on his desk. "My guys keep me honest."

She stabbed her pen in his direction. "You don't give yourself enough credit. I don't think you'd sell your soul for a vacation home even without the constant threat of Stan's righteous indignation."

Kyle straightened and folded his hands in front of himself, trying his very best to look alert. "Fine, I'm the picture of ethics. What's after that?"

"Blitz policy session with Ron, then the Rocky Mountain Preservation Society have twenty minutes for a presentation. About mountains, I suppose." She frowned and tapped the planner again. "Andrew vetted them, I'm sure the details are in your daily."

"I'll be sure to read it in the oodles of free time I find myself with." He slumped back down onto his blotter. "Or it can be a surprise. It's more interesting to hear about Mexican Spotted Owls if you don't know it's coming. Session at eleven?"

"Yeah, but you can skip it. Nothing interesting on the docket. Naming some post offices and Jack Burnes has a floor speech about protecting American interests in oil. D'arcy has a rebuttal about alternative energy. It's not going to be a barn burner."

The idea of sitting through that was wholly revolting. 

He didn't have time to stop for coffee on the way in but he was starting to think he should have made time. His eyes were already drooping. His brilliant plan to spend as much time with Stan as possible was starting to bite him in the ass on the basis of pure exhaustion. He was getting too old to live like he did in high school; he couldn't get through entire days with just a nap anymore.

"Seriously, Kyle." Shannon sounded warm, concerned, and Kyle snapped his head back up and blinked at her. "Are you okay? Are you sick?"

He shook his head. The truth was that he was exhausted on his best days, which she knew, but Stan had a particularly bad day yesterday. Priority number one was mitigating Stan's misery. If that meant he needed to sacrifice a little more of his sleep to make sure that Stan woke up with a smile on his face, willing to face another day, then that was what he was going to have to do. He'd find a way to live with it.

"Is Andrew going on a coffee run soon?" he asked.

"No, but I'll send him. You need to sleep more. Jacked up on caffeine isn't any way to live."

He chuckled a little, humorlessly, and shook his head. "Can I have five before Staff?"

"Five," she agreed. "But I'm not letting the schedule go to hell before nine in the morning." She breezed out the door, shut it behind her with a quiet _snick_ , and left him alone with his thoughts.

***

He survived through Fisher's pontificating about SNAP reauthorization and welfare-to-work; he perched himself on the edge of one of Witz's chairs and held back laughter while Witz stumbled over his words while exchanging pleasantries, which was more interesting than his attempts to get Kyle on board with a two-bill fighter jet prototype. He was a tiny little seventy year old man who obviously was uncomfortable with Kyle's brand of open fruitness, but he tried his best and Kyle appreciated that in people.

He wasn't as bad as Rouche or Thompson, both of whom wouldn't even shake Kyle's hand, like homosexuality was contagious or like if they touched him, it gave Kyle permission to pounce. As if Kyle ever would. His entire life had been devoted to Stan in one way or another and besides, Rouche had a toupee and Thompson had a gut on him. They were both in their sixties. He wouldn't fuck either of them with a gun to his head, which was what he was thinking about while George Ratzinger, professional briber, tried once again to sell him on giving up the Medicare expansion. He did wind up shouting, loudly enough that his staff was silent and staring at the door to the conference room when he shoved it open and stomped across the room.

Ron flinched when Kyle slammed the door closed behind him, but Kyle took a couple deep breaths and pulled himself back together so he could talk about tuition incentives and things that mattered. 

Then it was time for Spotted Owls and mountain range deforestation, which he might've cared about on any other day but no amount of coffee could focus his mind on the middle-aged guy in an ill-fitting suit, droning about the dangers of deforestation. It all just made him think about Stan, who cared very deeply about Spotted Owls and everything else on the endangered species list. Which reminded him of what he was going to do with his lunch break, and that thing was unfortunately not napping.

As it turned out, Ben Silverstein also didn't care about Burnes and D'arcey or who the Point Rock, Vermont post office was named after, because he was still in his office when Kyle stopped over at eleven thirty to see if he was going to be free for lunch.

"Broflovski, Broflovski." Ben's voice boomed out of his office. "You've been dodging me for a month and now you just show up at my door?" Kyle already had a headache from the day in general. He was regretting his decision.

Kyle gave Ben's PA a little nod and slipped through the open door. He closed it behind him. "I wasn't avoiding you. I've been busy."

"You cancelled on me three times, Kyle. I wasn't born yesterday." Ben was leaned back further than Kyle thought his chair ought to go, feet propped up on the corner of his desk. He was reading some pulp trash novel with a spaceship on the cover. 

Kyle rubbed his eyes and wondered how the hell Ben found time to read anything other than briefs. The last time he cracked the spine on a book had been during the August recess, some cheap horror thriller he picked up in Hudson News at Dulles, on their way down to Florida. He never managed to finish it, but it was terrible anyway.

"There's a lot going on."

"I've heard. Blue Cross sent that guy your way again, huh?"

Kyle groaned. "He offered me a couple weeks at his chateau in wine country this time. I always imagined they'd be a little more subtle about it. You know, not just brazenly out there with their motives."

"There was a time," Ben said. "That's changed. What brings you knocking on my door? Finally ready to talk about 117?"

"Stop trying to sell me on it. Drop the fifty mil for oil exploration Alaska and you've got me."

"I never pegged you as the kind of guy who looks out for elk."

"It's not me," Kyle admitted. "I don't like sleeping on the couch. It's lumpy."

"Ah." Ben grinned. "The spouse. More effective than all the lobbyists put together."

Kyle made a face. "He makes me powerpoint presentations sometimes, with pictures of sad looking deer. He's right, though."

"Does he really track your record that closely? He'd notice a measly fifty mil in an amendment on a HUD bill?"

Kyle nodded. Stan was his political conscience, which he was glad for, but it was a symptom of the bigger problem. If he had time to sit online and track every word of every bill, it was because there wasn't anything else. Which was Kyle's fault, this whole thing was, because he had to chase an impossible dream. It didn't surprise him that it couldn't be maintained.

"That's why I'm here, actually," he said.

Ben motioned to the chair in front of his desk which Kyle gratefully slumped down into while Ben marked his place in his book and sat back up straight, feet on the floor.

"If you want advice on how to keep Stan out of your business, you're barking up the wrong tree. I still can't get Lisa off my ass on education and I've held this seat for twenty years."

Kyle shook his head. "Stan's perverse love of nature is something I've always lived with. It's kind of adorable, except for when he thinks we should sleep in tents. That's not the problem."

"Then what brings you knocking on my front door?"

This wasn't Kyle's game. Asking for advice, especially about Stan, wasn't in his skill set. They'd always understood each other. He prided himself on knowing what Stan needed before Stan did half the time. This whole thing was strange and uncomfortable, an echo back to their childhood when he didn't know what to do then, either. He felt helpless, ashamed that he hadn't realized Stan was miserable for the last two years until recently. 

Which was why he was here, putting up with the only person who managed to needle him just as well as his own mother. Lisa was the Stan to Ben's Kyle, always doing the back and forth with him, since Ben took the seat back before Kyle could drive. They made this mad kind of life work. He needed to know how, at least just for now, until he yanked his hat out of the ring for '26. 

He'd considered outright resignation because Stan mattered more than all seven hundred thousand people in the Colorado Second, but he didn't want to disappoint all the people who voted for him; the college kids who put aside partying to knock on doors for him; Candice Wainwright, single mother of three, who burst into tears in the middle of his office while she was trying to thank him for his work on the preschool bill last term. If it came to it, if he ran out of options aside from resignation, he would in a heartbeat but he was going to try this first.

"Youre working yourself to death, Broflovski. Are you even awake?"

Kyle startled and shot Ben a moody glare. "I'm thinking."

"Too hard maybe. Out with it."

Might as well just get on with it, he decided. It wasn't the end of the world if someone knew the Broflovski-Marshes were having a rocky time of it.

"What does Lisa do when she's out here with you?"

"A lot, why do you ask?"

He paused to think again, trying to figure out how to parse his words in the most flattering way. When he looked up, Ben was frowning at him, concern practically rolling off him in waves. 

"You okay, Kyle?"

"Fine, just, Stan's--bored, I guess. He doesn't know what to do with himself." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling uneasy at the piercing look Ben was shooting at him. "You and Lisa are the only people I know who do this without living apart."

"Ah." Ben folded his hands on top of his novel and cocked his head to the side, looking for something on Kyle's face. Whatever it was, he found it and his lips curled down into a frown. "It's hard at first."

"I noticed," Kyle muttered. "If it was easy, I wouldn't be peddling for advice."

"She got into a groove after the boys started school. Museums, hospital charities, that sort of thing. She does a lot of work with the DC public schools, helping at-risk kids. She'd know better than I do. I'll have her email you. There might be something in there she can get Stan into, if he's interested."

Half the problem was that Stan wasn't interested in anything at all. It worried Kyle a lot more than he tried to let on. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so he took Ben's offer and excused himself before he could get roped into talking about fucking 117 for another minute.

It was barely going on twelve. His stomach was starting to growl but he had a blanket tucked under the couch in his office and he needed the sleep more than he needed a sandwich. Shannon was right. He couldn't keep this up for much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [Kyle's schedule for the whole day](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B9xR7v8FZdBOY1RwcmNfcTlyeXM/view?usp=sharing).


	7. Chapter 7

The few days after they came back from Colorado were always busy, and the rain-soaked last week of February wasn't any different. Stan always owed the universe a cosmic debt, the consequence of being allowed ten days in the only place that would ever really be home. Mail needed to be picked up from the post office, bills needed to be paid, he had to clean all the gross shit out of the fridge. He had a meeting with Jake's independent study advisor that took too long for how well Jake was doing.

The time difference always wore him out in a bad way, left him feeling clogged and slow. Of course the only days that didn't stretch out in an endless, meandering emptiness were the days he wanted nothing to do.

Kyle used his plus-one to the State of the Union Monday night on a constituent, some small business owner who made waves last year in the national press, thank God. Stan couldn't stomach sitting up in the House Galley and watching that trainwreck. Just _thinking_ about listening to Cooper stumble through a two-hour speech on his plan for America in respectful silence was enough to make Stan want to hurl. He watched the speech on TV instead and spent a solid quarter of his time swearing at the screen.

Cooper was an idiot from Louisiana, everything Stan hated in a politician. He was in the pocket of at least three oil companies and he probably wanted to start at least five wars. Stan didn't have any evidence of that, just supposition. He was okay with being a tinfoil hat type when it came to Cooper. There were worse choices in the primaries, like Rick fucking Santorum _again_ , that perennial douche, but his beef with Cooper was personal. 

They met, just once, when Cooper was still in the Senate. The sneering way he'd drawled out _life partner_ in that fucking Bayou accent made Stan want to rip his face off. Stan had been so proud of the way Kyle had sniffed, and said _husband, legally, and kiss my ass_ , so matter-of-factly that Cooper nearly choked on his own tongue. It put Kyle in an awkward place, with Cooper winning the election, but to Stan, it was worth it.

He was thinking about that while he fell asleep, curled up under the comforter without Kyle, who was still rubbing elbows at the post-speech mixer.

Tuesday was groceries, then therapy, where he spilled his guts about all the crap that happened the week they were gone: Cartman and his hate mail, Stan's tantrum at Mimi's, Kyle not telling him things that mattered, like that he was thinking about quitting or that he was getting threatened. The only advice Will had was to talk, which was the same thing everyone else was telling him to do. It wasn't presently helpful. He would, as soon as Kyle came home looking anything but dead on his feet. At the rate he was going, he wasn't going to get a full night's sleep until August recess, which actually worried Stan more than the secrecy. 

On Wednesday, he walked a really cute puppy that he wanted desperately to take home, but he let reason win out. There was no way they could handle a dog. It was why they had to rehome Chance, the poor old man. If Stan was going to wade through the logistical nightmare of lugging a dog across the country, he felt obliged to take Chance back from Kenny before he went out and picked up a replacement dog. 

That put him in a rotten mood, bad enough that he snapped at Jake during homework time and slammed around the kitchen while he made dinner. He didn't even bother to get out of his nest of blankets on the couch when Kyle came banging in at quarter past eight. Instead, he let Jake out of his time out so he could bound over to the door, tiny body almost shaking with pent-up energy and excitement. Seeing Kyle every night was practically the highlight of his day, every day. Stan thought how much Jake idolized his Daddy was cute, even if it meant Jake's mouth got them into trouble sometimes.

He listened while Jake reported the news of the day: Theo got recess detention for throwing a paper airplane at his head; yes, of course he did his homework; Stan was being mean, he didn't deserve his time out. 

When Kyle padded in on socked feet, shirt unbuttoned, yawning, Stan almost snapped at him, too. There were bags under his eyes. He moved slow, like he was walking through water. He should've been going straight to bed, not coming in to check on Stan like he had the flu or something.

"Hey," he said as he dropped onto the couch with a _whump_ and a little sigh of relief. "Jake said you weren't feeling too hot."

Stan heard what Jake had said, and that was _Dad's being mean_ in his very best whine, which he supposed Kyle could and did translate however he wanted.

"I'm fine," he said but his tone, his traitorous fucking tone, gave him away if the way Kyle's eyebrows shot up and his face transformed into the picture of skepticism was any indication.

"What's the matter?"

Stan just kind of shrugged and pulled Kyle close to him instead of answering. Nothing could fix his bad moods better than hiding out in the crook of Kyle's neck for awhile. Which was frankly pathetic of him. He felt like a stupid kid, clutching onto Kyle like he could make the world better by just his presence alone. Stan was a grown ass man, former professional, current parent, and acting like a moody seven year old having a tantrum was so outside of acceptable adult behavior it was embarrassing.

He took a deep breath, breathing in the citrus and soap smell that was the most comforting thing to him. Kyle's smell made him feel like he was home when nothing else could manage it. He felt better when he sat back up, but no less pathetic for it. It didn't help that Kyle was petting his hair, the same way he did when Stan was laid up sick. He supposed he was, just not with the flu, not in a way that was going to heal itself with fluids and rest.

"Did you go walk dogs today?" Kyle asked. "You've got that look."

Stan frowned down at his lap. "Yeah," he admitted. "Am I really that transparent?"

"No, I've just been watching you for thirty-plus years." Kyle leaned forward and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. "I have a PhD in Stan Marsh. Wrote my thesis on the way you think, fluent in your facial expressions, so on and so forth."

That managed to pull a tiny smile out of him. "I met a cute little yorkie named Pancake."

"That's a terrible name for any living thing." Kyle grabbed onto the edge of Stan's blanket and tugged until he freed enough of a corner for him to squirm into Stan's little nest, half in his lap. "I'm sure you wanted to take little Pancake home, name him Pancake Marsh, and make him yours."

"I did," Stan admitted. 

Jake sulked back into the room then, his lamb under one arm and his iPad under the other. He tossed a hurt look at the two of them. He plopped down in the armchair closest to the TV with a pretty good pout on his face and held his iPad up, like he was some defiant little revolutionary who liberated the damn thing from iPad prison. Stan left it on the counter, not locked in the Bastille.

He supposed Jake expected Kyle to take his side in the whole thing. He was a smart kid but there were some things he just didn't grasp yet, like that adults didn't put each other in time out. Or that Stan was absolutely allowed to be a little mean, especially if Jake was playing on his iPad instead of doing his homework _like Stan told him to_. He wasn't entirely unfair: he gave Jake at least three warnings before he finally snapped at him and snatched the iPad right out of his hands.

"Your mom sent me an email," Kyle said quietly. He was watching Jake, making sure he wasn't paying too much attention. He was already lost in his racing game, oblivious to the world.

"Okay?"

"You've been ignoring her calls, huh?" Kyle asked.

Stan ducked his head and let out a little whine. "I've been busy."

Kyle tilted his chin back up with his fingers, stroking his thumb across the line of Stan's jaw, smoothing along the day-old fuzz growing there, and made Stan look him in the eye. "Stop ignoring your mom. She's got something to tell you."

"If it's about Dad, Bebe already told me he's sick." He reached up and took Kyle's hand away from his face, rubbing little circles on Kyle's palm with his thumb. "Well, sort of. She didn't know the details."

"You didn't tell me about that," Kyle said. He slumped a little against Stan, closed his eyes and bit back a yawn.

"That was the day with..." The fight, the way the truth came tumbling out, that Kyle had been keeping something important from him for _years_. 

It still stung, even a full week later. He wondered if Kyle was hiding anything else, worried that thought to death in his head. It was almost enough to send him rummaging through Kyle's email but he stopped himself every day. There was paranoia and there was this, which went past worry and deep into territory Stan didn't want to explore. Kyle was a quick learner. He had to realize that Stan wasn't happy with lies of omission.

"Oh." Kyle looked a little shameful. "Sorry."

"Don't do it again."

Kyle kissed him, which was as good as a promise. Stan was fluent in Kyle, too, after all. 

"You should call her," he said when he pulled away, still close enough that their noses bumped together.

"I will." Stan went in for another kiss. 

This was his favorite part of the day, when they curled up together on the couch and kissed away all the bad shit that worked its way into their lives. It didn't solve anything, never had, but there was enough comfort that Stan felt like he could breathe.

They stayed like that for a while, until Jake decided he had enough and burrowed his way between them with a little cough and a haughty _excuse me_. They stayed up too late watching a rerun of CSI from ten years ago, and Kyle ruined any possible enjoyment by pointing out how wrong it was at every turn. Stan didn't much care, he just liked this: the three of them huddled under a blanket, keeping warm against the chill that rattled in through cracks in the windows.

Eventually Kyle stood up on tired, shaky legs, hefted a sleepy Jake up into his arms and brought him up to bed, Stan trailing after them. He was too big to be carried really, but he held on like a spider monkey, even when he was half asleep. 

Jake's worst-kept secret was how much he loved his Daddy, how he didn't mind when Kyle did things that he _hated_ when Stan did the same, like carrying him up to bed or brushing his hair for him. Stan sometimes wondered if that was a result of this mad life, too, but he tucked the thought away whenever it occurred to him. Some things weren't worth exploring, even theoretically.

They got ready for bed in a comfortable, tired quiet. Kyle brushed his teeth and shaved while Stan sat on the closed lid of the toilet and patiently waited for his turn. He liked this part of the night, where he could unabashedly admire the shape of Kyle's bare shoulders, the way his flannel pants pulled tight against his ass, how ivory-pale the skin of his back was.

When they switched places, he wondered if Kyle looked at him that way, too. Glancing back would break the spell, lift the silence. Kyle would want to talk and the drowsy magic of the moment would be broken.

He broke it anyway, while Stan was brushing his teeth. "Do you ever think to yourself, holy shit, he used to be so tiny?"

Stan spat his toothpaste out. "All the time."

The day Jake was born was one of those days that burned itself into his memory. He had perfect recall of the way he felt like he was going to puke, pacing back and forth in the waiting room while Kyle sat silent and stoic, staring at the door to the maternity ward. Things were going to change. It wasn't going to be just the two of them against the world anymore. He could still kind of hear Kyle's cracking, nervous voice, after their tiny, squalling baby was settled into his arms. _Hey, Jacob_ , he said. Stan didn't think he could love Kyle anymore than he did, but somehow that changed, too.

"Do you want another one, you know, some day?" Kyle asked, voice tiny and almost fragile, like he was afraid of asking the question at all.

Stan didn't answer while he rinsed his toothbrush, stayed quiet until Kyle let out a little sigh.

"Have you been talking with my mom?" Stan asked suspiciously.

Kyle laughed a little, soft and quiet. He looked a little lost, buried under total exhaustion. "Mine, actually," he said. "But she got me thinking."

"I don't know, Kyle," Stan answered. "It's a lot of work and you're not exactly loaded with free time as it is."

Kyle looked away. "I guess not," he said. 

He was silent again while Stan flossed and washed his face. When Stan pulled the ugly orange hand towel away from his face, he caught Kyle's reflection in the mirror in the corner of his eye. He looked sad, almost defeated. The dull worry that always hummed in the back of Stan's head spiked up into something sharper, more defined. 

"Kyle?" He dropped the towel to the counter and turned away from the sink.

Kyle stood, crossed the tiny space between them, and tucked himself flush against Stan. "I'm sorry about that," he said.

"About what?"

"The time." Kyle peeked up at him. "I wish there were six more hours in every day."

"You'd be bored with nothing to do."

Kyle's lips spread into a grin against his bare shoulder. "I could do you."

He laughed. "I walked right into that one, huh?"

"Left yourself wide open." Kyle pressed a kiss into the crook of his neck. "I have this recurring fantasy of you bending me over my desk. At night, after everyone's gone home, and it's just the two of us trying to be quiet so we don't get caught by the cleaning ladies. I've been thinking about it all day."

"And who am I in this fantasy? Lowly intern, fed up with answering phones, unable to resist my hot boss?"

"You're you, asshole." Kyle kissed him again, open mouthed and warm against Stan's skin. "You think the dresser is a good surrogate? It's a little tall, but I think we could make it work if we tried."

Stan palmed his shoulders and guided him backward. "Easy there, hot stuff," Stan told him. "You're tired."

The sadness was gone off his face, replaced by something more mischievous, like he was honestly considering the logistics of his little fantasy. Sometimes Stan had a hard time keeping up with how Kyle's mind worked, but he understood this. Kyle sought comfort through sex, had since they were teenagers. Stan wanted it too, but there were dark circles around Kyle's eyes and his eyelids were drooping, like keeping them open was too much work.

"There is no such thing as _too tired for Stan_."

"You don't look up to vigorous activity." 

Kyle waved his hand dismissively, as if exhaustion was just a thing he could will away. "Okay, so we'll shelve the dresser idea. We own a bed. Several, actually. And there's an available one ten feet away." 

Stan chuckled softly. "Yeah, and you should be _sleeping_ in that bed."

"Later." He pushed Stan's hands off his shoulders and stepped close again. "Just, God. Bliss me out first, please." He curled his fingers into the waistband of Stan's pajamas, brushed his thumb across the trail of dark hair under Stan's navel. 

"Kyle," Stan breathed out. He was hot all over, flushed and suddenly aroused.

"I wanna go to sleep so satisfied I dream about the way you feel inside me," he whispered against Stan's jaw. He snuck his hand down, fingers ghosting over Stan's hip then down, lower--

"Still wanna go to sleep?" Kyle asked, low and sweet against his ear.

***

Stan was exhausted on Thursday morning. He shuffled sleepily through making scrambled eggs while Kyle hovered over the coffee pot, as if watching it made it brew faster. Five hours of sleep wasn't enough for either of them. Guilt flooded him when he thought about how excellent his nap was going to be after he got home from dropping Jake off. Kyle had a whole day to get through and he already looked like a zombie at seven in the morning.

By the time Jake tramped down the stairs, dressed in his little uniform and frowning tiredly at them both, Stan already decided how the evening was going to go: he was going to make sure Kyle ate something when he got home, then forcibly put him to bed if it came to it. Jake, too, now that he thought about it. 

Maybe the reason they were both wearing on each other in the afternoons was because Stan had been lax with bedtime for the last few nights, letting him have the run of the place until well after ten. Nine wasn't so early. Jake and Kyle were both happier for it when they got to see each other in the evenings, but Stan was going to have to find a way to balance that with everyone getting enough sleep. No good would come of Kyle collapsing from exhaustion, even if Stan selfishly loved this new routine. Kyle needed rest more than Stan needed company.

He barely noticed how empty the day was, just napped the morning away after he came back from bringing Jake to school. He woke up thinking about laundry, which was a perfect example of his sad state, but couldn't help his stupid grin at the series of texts blinking away on his phone.

_your people are here Stanley_  
theyre making me look at sad owls  
I feel less compelled 2 help when you arent pouting at me 

Stan sent him back the poutiest selfie he could manage and _save the owls_ before he even attempted to haul himself out of bed. He liked that Kyle took meetings about that stuff, things Stan found important that Kyle didn't care as much about. Maybe that was normal, but it made Stan feel loved every time.

It wasn't until he was standing in the laundry room, staring down at the mountain of dirty clothes that he remembered his promise to call his mother. He didn't want to know what was up with Randy, not really, but he couldn't ignore her forever either.

_Mama's boy_ , he thought to himself as he tossed the whites into the wash and listened to the phone ring.

She didn't let it ring for long. "Finally decided to stop ignoring me?" she asked instead of her usual _hello_ , or _hey sweetie_ , or _Stan!_.

"I--yeah, okay. Yes." The entire spectacle at Mimi's had been embarrassing. In hindsight, at least. "But I just don't want to talk about it."

"It?" She wasn't annoyed, really--he knew what that sounded like.

"Breakfast. Dad. The whole thing."

She sighed. "You're a grown man, Stanley. I won't presume to tell you what you should and shouldn't do."

Sure, but she was disappointed. Stan could hear that clear as day, lacing through her words like smoke through the air. He hopped up onto the dryer and considered what to say. 

"Dad's sick," he prompted.

"Yeah. He wanted to tell you himself."

"Thus breakfast," Stan realized. He felt kind of stupid. Randy almost never broke the sacred Christmas/Easter treaty. Sometimes he would take Jake out around his birthday, once in a blue moon he badgered Stan to come out to blacklight bowling night or down to the sports bar to watch a Broncos game, but that was it. He'd never even been to their house.

"Yeah," Sharon said. "You know how news is in South Park. He didn't want you to hear second hand, but I guess you already have."

"Bebe," he said.

"So you already know."

"Not any details or anything," Stan clarified. "Just that he's sick."

She didn't say anything. For a moment, Stan wondered if the line disconnected until she let out a little sigh. "He's got cancer, Stan," she said.

He sat on the dryer, legs dangling off the side, and tried his best to comfort her from two thousand miles away while she told him about chemotherapy and five-year survival rates. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel. He didn't think it was the absolute black hole of emotion, sitting like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He didn't feel a damn thing for Randy.

It ate at him all through the afternoon, while he took Jake to Starbucks for hot chocolate, while he made dinner, while he sat on the couch with Jake curled up under his arm, drowsily asking when Daddy was going to be home every five minutes. 

So his dad was dying and he didn't care. He wondered if he would, if things were different. If he wasn't too busy trying to climb out of his own crater, he might be able to muster up an iota of sympathy. He didn't think so. Maybe once, a long time ago, before things got so awful between them that the twice-yearly visits were even too much. There was a little sick, twisted relief in the pit of his stomach. It bothered him more than knowing Randy was going to die.

He waited until Jake was asleep, after Kyle's nighttime routine was finished and they were both laying in bed, face to face, before he said a word of it.

"My dad has liver cancer." The words didn't hurt like he kind of hoped they would, that saying them would summon up feelings thinking hadn't. They still felt strange, clumsy and new on his tongue. He knew they'd get familiar, though. He'd say them again and again until they changed just a little, one little tense shift that meant the world said goodbye to Randy Marsh.

Kyle's jaw dropped. "Oh my god," he said as he tugged Stan close and pieced himself around him, armor against pain Stan didn't feel. "Is he-- I mean is he going to-- is it bad?"

"He's starting chemo next week." He sounded steady, emotionless enough to startle Kyle into pulling away. "They're not optimistic. His liver's already trashed from all the drinking."

"Jesus, are you okay?"

He took in the concern flooding Kyle's face. It was ironic, how Kyle cared more than he did. By all rights, Kyle should've hated Randy for the way Randy treated him.

The last time Kyle and Randy even had a cordial conversation was eighteen years ago, outside the weather-beaten ring of bleachers at South Park High. Graduation day. Randy said _congratulations, good luck, what's next_. Kyle told him the truth as he tugged nervously at the fraying end of his honors tassel. It all kind of gushed out in one breath, like he was just waiting for someone to ask: _Boulder with Stan, isn't it exciting, we're already looking at apartments_. A cold look passed over Randy's face, just for a second, so quick Stan thought he imagined it. He hadn't. 

That was the moment. Things were awkward before that, tense and strange whenever Stan visited his dad in Denver. After, Randy went cold whenever Stan brought up Kyle; wouldn't visit him at school; even stopped talking to Gerald entirely, as if the entire Broflovski family was suddenly a problem. 

For a while, Stan wondered why but he never asked. He was afraid of the answer. Maybe it was because Randy didn't want a gay son, maybe it was because Randy just didn't like Kyle. Whatever it was, Stan let it hurt him for a long time until it turned into something else, a kind of resentment that got worse and worse with every awkward visit, until it morphed into this: his dad was going to die. He didn't feel anything. 

"I don't..." Stan sucked in a breath, hid his face in the crook of Kyle's neck and considered how to say what he needed to without sounding like the most heartless person in the world. He hoped Jake cared more than this when he finally kicked off. "I'm fine," he said. "That's the problem, I think."

Kyle _hmm_ ed. "I hope the chemo works."

"He's got a tumor in a cirrhotic liver, Ky." He ducked his head and pressed a kiss against Kyle's fluffy hair. He needed a haircut, which was an absurd thought, but it sparked across the back of Stan's mind, pushing down bad memories. "I guess I knew this was how that sad story was going to end."

He had uneasy dreams that night, black and white versions of a funeral repeating over and over; of giving a eulogy he didn't write, didn't feel at all. People hugging him, expecting him to cry, but there wasn't anything welling up in his chest, just anxiety and a desperate wish to be anywhere else.

***

He didn't feel any different when he woke up on Friday. He worked through the motions of the day, empty numbness replacing his normal blase feeling of hopelessness. He went for his jog. Ran until his lungs burned. He returned his library books. He ate lunch at a deli near the Hill. Got interrupted by Aaron Jackson, who wanted him to convince Kyle to vote on some Park Service bill. He gave directions to a lost-looking family who wanted to see the White House. He dodged calls from his mom.

He picked up Jake. They walked back the long way because Stan didn't want to go home, not yet. That would mean he was out of excuses and had to call his mom back. At least outside he could let his thoughts tumble around in his head, forming into something solid and coherent. He didn't have the words yet, didn't know what to say other than _that sucks, I'm sorry_ , which he knew weren't the words a son was supposed to say about his dying father.

He wondered how he would feel, if he were in her shoes. The idea of Kyle facing down some terminal illness made him panic, though, so he shut that down before his imagination managed to conjure up a nightmare. That was a useless comparison anyway. His life was so entangled with Kyle's--always had been--he didn't have a clue what not loving him would feel like. His parents' marriage dissolved before Stan hit puberty; Sharon's obligation to Randy fucking Marsh ended twenty-five years ago.

The House gaveled out for the weekend at three-thirty, so Kyle came home early, just after four, with chinese food and a too-bright smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. They ate on the floor in the living room while they played Monopoly Junior and let Jake win. Kyle didn't say anything at all while Jake tore up and down the living room, all frizzy hair and flailing limbs, hollering in victory. He just reorganized the game in a sort of pensive silence, methodically sorting the little pieces into neat, even piles.

"Jake, calm down," Stan said because he couldn't take Kyle not saying it. "You're giving me a migraine."

Jake collapsed into a heap on the couch, still vibrating with joy from what was the most obviously thrown game of Monopoly Junior in history. He either didn't notice or didn't care, though both were possible. Jake thrived on winning, just like Kyle. 

"Sor-ry," he said, "but I won!"

"Yes, you did," Kyle said. He slotted the last of the pieces away, closed the cover on the box. "Can you bring this upstairs?" he asked, holding it up. "Winner puts the game away."

"That's not in the rules," Jake complained, but he took the box anyway and tramped upstairs.

Kyle waited until he heard Jake's bedroom door slam before he turned to Stan, frown on his face. "Are you feeling okay today?"

"Fine," Stan said. He didn't think he looked unhappy. Everything felt kind of weird, disjointed and wrong. His brain was all sorts of confused about what he was supposed to be feeling, but he didn't feel _bad_. Just strange.

"I was worried all day, you know. That it was going to hit you all of a sudden and you were going to be alone." He peered up at Stan for a while, that thoughtful look back on his face. His eyes were crinkled in the corners, squinty, like if he stared hard enough he'd be able to read Stan's thoughts. "But you really are fine, aren't you?"

"I'm bothered that I'm not bothered." Stan frowned and tried again. "I mean, I wish it hurt more than it does. I know I should be upset, but I'm just... not."

Kyle dragged himself across the carpet until they were knees-to-knees, both of them crosslegged on the floor. He scooped up Stan's hands, pressed kisses to his knuckles. Stan reveled in it for a while, cherished the sweet side of Kyle the rest of the world didn't get to share.

"I'm not going to tell you you're dealing with this wrong because I don't think there is a wrong way," Kyle said, voice soft and low; comforting, which Stan didn't need but he ate it up like a starving man anyway. "I think you should talk to Doctor Franklin, though. Especially if you're worried about how you feel."

"I've got an appointment on Thursday." Stan planned to spill his guts, let it all out on poor Will as soon as he walked in the door. Talking helped, it always had, and he was glad to have that outlet again. "I'm already on it, promise."

"Good." Kyle reached out and squeezed Stan's thigh. "I'm with you, however you want to deal with this, okay?"

"I know," Stan told him.

Neither of them said anything for a while, just sat there on the ground, knees touching, listening to the thumps and slams Jake was making, banging around upstairs.

"I don't know what he expects me to do."

"I don't think he expects anything," Kyle said. "Though I won't presume to know how Randy's brain works."

"Me, neither." Twenty years later and he still didn't understand what Randy's problem was, not really. "I used to be afraid of becoming him, you know."

"Yeah. But you didn't." Kyle smiled a little. It didn't reach his eyes. "You're all Sharon."

It was a comforting sort of lie, the kind Stan didn't mind. They both knew the devil on his shoulder was a tiny Randy. Staying off that road was one of the hardest things he had to do.

***

DC cleared out on weekends. Most of Congress was gone by five on Fridays, hurrying through airports and train stations on a race to get home. He actually liked this part of every week, knowing that Kyle didn't have to worry about rushing through Dulles every Friday evening, trying to manage his airport-induced stress all by himself. It was enough of a headache for them to go back as often as they did. Stan couldn't imagine Kyle convincing himself to get on a plane every single weekend.

Saturday was good, familiar even if the backdrop had changed: they woke up late and lazed around. Kyle ignored his phone. They spent the afternoon letting Jake run the show because Saturday evenings always brought a tantrum of epic proportions. The weekends, at least according to Jake, were _his_ time to hang out with Daddy, and he thought it was cosmically unjust whenever he missed out on a single minute of it.

Jake's babysitter was a nice girl, petite and mousy with thick-framed glasses and a soft voice. He liked her, he was plenty polite to her, but he practically hissed when anyone said 'Isabelle' out loud. He knew what that meant, that Stan and Kyle were going to take off for dinner or a show and he was going to be left behind.

Stan sat this one out and let Kyle handle the tantrum for once. Jake didn't want to hear it from him anyway, what he wanted was Kyle's reassurance. Kyle came down a little red-eyed and subdued, Jake trailing after him, clutching Lamby and chewing on his bottom lip. He made them promise half a dozen times they'd be home by nine before he let them out the front door, finally lured away by Isabelle promising of pizza and Finding Nemo.

Stan pretended not to notice while Kyle guiltily sent Jake a fifty dollar iTunes credit in the taxi. 

They were both subdued on the ride, talking quietly about nothing important--Shelly's monthly email update, how Ike already got back together with Rachel. Sheila was nagging on him to marry her--which Ike wasn't into, and it was a terrible idea, besides. They broke up once a month. Both of them were skirting around the important things, but it was kind of comforting to slide into a booth at Blank Plate laughing at Kyle's pitch-perfect imitation of his mother. 

It didn't last. By the time Stan took the first bite of his calamari, Kyle's shoulders had slumped and he was poking listlessly at his salad.

"Hey, what's up?" Stan asked, but he had a feeling he already knew. Whatever had transpired up in Jake's bedroom made them both cry.

"Jake said he misses me," Kyle said. 

"He loves you," Stan said. "He worships you, dude. He probably wants you to go to school with him."

Kyle snorted. "Did you ever want to take your parents to school with you?"

"When I was six? Hell yeah. I loved it when my mom came to school. She usually brought cupcakes."

"Well, I don't bake," Kyle said. 

"I know, that's hardly my point." Stan rolled his eyes. No one, least of all him, expected Kyle to find time to be a room mother. "He just wants to hang out with you. He's bored with me, I'm around all the time."

"I suppose. I'm not that exciting."

"Please," Stan said. "Jake and I are co-presidents of your fan club."

That managed to pull a smile out of Kyle.

"I have something to talk about with you tonight," he said. "Two things, actually."

"Oh?" Little tendrils of worry worked their way into his thoughts. His brain went right to the worst, like more threats, or maybe something more horrifying that he couldn't even conjure in his head.

"It's nothing bad, I promise." Kyle reached across the table and took Stan's hand. "So, we're getting a keycard lock installed over the weekend, per your demands."

"Thank you," Stan said. He could breathe a little easier knowing that someone couldn't just walk in and start shooting. At least if they had to break down the door, there'd be a little more warning.

"Thank Shannon, she did all the work." Kyle squeezed his fingers. "I had a meeting with the FBI and the Capitol Police on Thursday. There were a couple more letters. They still aren't worried," Kyle said, cutting off the question that was half-out of Stan's mouth. "I just thought I'd keep you in the loop."

"Okay." Stan wondered why the FBI and the CP were having meetings if they weren't serious threats. "They investigate them, though, right? Even though they aren't worried?"

"Yes," Kyle said. "They love my letters. Most of them are signed, which means there isn't even any investigating. Just straight up sending someone to knock on a door and ask them if they really intend to kill me. They don't, by the way." He swirled the straw around in his water, thoughtful look on his face. "I find it comforting."

"That people send you threats via mail?"

"That they don't actually want to kill me, Stan, that's the comforting part." He sighed. "I could be Rick Vieira, _he_ has the CP in his office once a week. I only see them once every few months."

Stan turned that over in his head a few times. He wasn't happy about the entire thing, but at least it wasn't that bad, at least Kyle didn't merit weekly meetings or armed bodyguards. Not yet, anyway. 

"Please don't worry," Kyle said.

"You know I'm going to."

"Yeah, but I'm trying to talk you out of it." Kyle's smile fell flat. "You've got enough going on. Let the professionals handle this one."

He sighed. "It's not a thing I can turn on and off at will."

Kyle lifted their hands and kissed Stan's knuckles. "I have another thing."

"Oh?"

"You know Lisa?" He shifted uncomfortably, looking a little embarrassed for some reason Stan couldn't fathom. 

"Which Lisa?"

"Silverstein," Kyle said. "Ben's wife." 

Stan did know that Lisa, kind of, vaguely. They weren't friends. Stan's recollections of her were sketchy at best. Short, kind eyes, dark hair. They only met once or twice, at Congressional functions. He went hard on the champagne at those things; his memory was always a little foggy in the morning. She'd been the one to recommend GW when they were looking for a school for Jake. Their youngest was still there, a Senior. 

"What about her?" He prompted when Kyle didn't say anything.

"I talked to Ben on Thursday and asked him what she did, you know? Here, in Washington. She does a lot of volunteering and I know you were looking at that stuff. So I thought it might be helpful, you know, to get some information for you. She emailed me and wants to have lunch with you on Monday." It all came out in a sort of rush that ended with Kyle shutting his mouth so hard his teeth clicked together. He was blushing. Stan thought it was kind of cute.

"That's great," he said.

Kyle let out a breath. "Oh, thank god. I thought you were going to be pissed at me."

"Why?" Stan asked, incredulous. "Because you want to help me?"

"Because it's not my thing to be yaking around town about?" 

"It's our thing. I'm glad you want to help." He took a sip of his wine. "Do I even have anything in common with this woman?" 

Kyle's eyes lit up, just a little. "She used to teach high school science, Stanley. I think you've got a couple things in common."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Position Papers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258435) by [imparfait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imparfait/pseuds/imparfait)




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